


Open Wounds

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood, Distressing imagery, Gen, Gore, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Torture, Violence, post-Thangorodrim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 73,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1818529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros' post-Thangorodrim recovery. Done to death, I know, but not like this. An exploration into the intricacies of anatomy and psychology, and the very real complications of recovering from such a horrific event for both the victim and the onlookers.<br/>Possibly distressing imagery - gore / post-traumatic stress disorders. So proceed with caution if sensitive to such topics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Simbelmynë

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I have been curious about writing for a good long while, and something I’ve not seen much done thus far within Silmarillion fanfiction: a take on Maedhros’ post-Thangorodrim recovery, but with the incorporation of some proper physiology and psychology. I do not for an instant believe that Maedhros escaped Thangorodrim unscathed other than for the loss of his hand, and this series will attempt to account for some of the myriad other anatomical and psychosomatic issues that would spring from stress-positions, exposure and torture. Healing is not so simple, guilt is not so poetic; and all too swiftly must Maedhros and his brothers come to acknowledge those bitter truths. 
> 
> As I have said, I have been interested in writing an exploratory work to this effect for some time, as I have an academic background in biological sciences. Truly I am curious as to its reception, as this is an area often glossed over in fan-works, and indeed in canon itself. So tentatively I post this, and please, do let me know what you think, and if you’d like to read more.
> 
> Dedicated to my friend Melanie, who unfortunately could not be saved.

  

SIMBELMYNË

“Was there no other way?” 

Fingon sat upon the edge of a bed in an unoccupied infirmary tent. He dabbed at a scrape along his forearm with an alcohol-swabbed rag, his jaw working as he ignored Maglor’s question. A terse silence stretched throughout the tent, until once more Maglor asked, “Was there _no_ other way?”

A glimmer of desperation shook in his voice, and pointedly he looked at Fingon, who would not meet his eye in return.

“Finno, please…”

“What do you want me to say?” Fingon snapped, swiping the rag so hard down his arm that the cuts broke open anew. He hissed as the alcohol stung against his flesh, and remorsefully Maglor looked on from beside the tent’s quilted entranceway.

“I don’t know,” Maglor whispered, his gaze dropping to his boots. “I don’t know. I’m sorry…” 

“They should be ready now,” Fingon replied dully. He cast the bloodied rag aside onto the bedside table and rolled down the sleeve of his shirt. “Nyériel said to give them fifteen minutes.”

“Oh…” Maglor started as if he had been slapped. Tight anticipation stabbed though his innards. “R-right…”

Horror clutched at his throat, the sheer dread of what he was going to have to face wrapped around him like coils of strangling rope. That decision, that one unspeakable decision made in regret and anger so long ago now dangled its consequences before him, and he had not the strength to even try to deny his guilt.

With darkened eyes Fingon looked over to his cousin, and tersely he muttered, “You do not have to do this.”

Maglor swallowed. “Yes, I do.”

“Káno…” 

“Don’t. Finno, just… just don’t. I have to see him. I _have_ to.” He inhaled a deep, shaking breath. “He’s my brother. He’s my big brother, and I cannot just abandon him. I cannot do that again.”

With that an icy resolve seemed to steady within him, and wordlessly Fingon nodded. He rose from the bed, and together they walked the short distance over to another of the healers’ many tents, where the source of their sorrows lay.  

Bitter purpose pushed Maglor onwards, it forced him to place one foot in front of the other, but as they reached the canvas flaps that draped across the narrow verandah of the tent, that resolve faltered. His hand gripped tightly about a tent-post, his knuckles showed white under his skin. Dread knotted in his lungs, he blinked back the wave of hot, merciless tears that prickled behind his eyes and in silence Fingon watched him. There was nothing that could possibly be said. This was something that Maglor would have to decide to do for himself.

After a few shaky breaths, Maglor pulled together what tenuous threads of courage he could, and before doubt or terror could grip him anew he near lunged inside the tent. Quietly Fingon shadowed his footsteps, slipping in behind him like a solemn little ghost.

“… milk of the poppy, several ounces of witch-hazel, and as many fresh sprigs of _athelas_ as you can find,” an authoritative voice was saying. “Boil strips of cloth amid lightly salted water, and bring with you a needle and thread. Set a brand also to the fire: this wound must be dealt with before necrosis can set in. Do this, I bid you, and with all the haste you can.”

“Yes, mistress,” came the reply, and as Maglor and Fingon entered the tent proper, a pale-faced apprentice dashed past them before disappearing into the glare of the sunset upon her errands. 

Nyériel glanced up as they entered, pausing from where she stood huddled over a steaming bowl lain atop a wide oaken chest at the foot of the sickbed which occupied the center of the room. Swiftly she moved over to them, momentarily obscuring Maglor’s anxious glimpse of the figure sprawled atop the bedcovers.

“Your majesty, my lord,” she nodded tightly in greeting. “We have much work to do tonight, and I am not sure it is best if –“

A wave of desperation slammed through Maglor’s stomach; a terrible, perverse urge to just get this over with, to just behold in truth the horrors that he had wrought, to sever this hideous forestalling and all the evil shadows of his imagination. Quickly he stepped aside her, beginning: “Mistress, I appreciate your advice but I – Oh!”

His throat clenched, his speech cut off in a strangled choke of dismay as he beheld his brother.

Mercifully Maedhros was unconscious, but that was where mercy ended. Scars lanced over his body: whip lines and knife-marks and faded, pink burns scored over his chest like some obscene tapestry carved of flesh. In erratic punctuations they ridged over his stomach, over his legs, even curling about his pale cheeks. A length of cloth was poised over his waist to preserve his modesty, but against the stark exposure of such abuse its presence was almost obscene. 

Maglor whined as his eyes skated his brother’s body, an unconscious noise of horror flickering out from his deep within his throat. 

So thin he was, so wasted; the muscles seemed to have melted from him, stripped down to their barest essentials. The lanterns dotted about the tent’s interior cast clotting shadows amid the hollows of his ribs, between the jut of his hipbones; his skin stretched taut over the abnormal concavity of his stomach.   

_This is all your fault._

Aghast, Maglor’s eyes slipped at last from his brother’s form, and involuntarily he focused instead upon the dark smears that marked the bed-sheets beneath his back; the wet, crimson stains that seeped through the white cotton. For over Maedhros’ back festering wounds were clawed, born of skin ripped open time and time again against the remorseless shale, and they leaked a foul mixture of pus and blood over the sheets like crippled wings unfurling beneath him. 

_You did this. You left him._

Maglor pressed a shaking hand over his mouth, his fingertips digging painfully hard into his cheeks to try to quell the nausea that brimmed up in his stomach. Yet despite himself he staggered as a sudden wave of dizziness washed through him. Fingon quickly stepped up behind him, placing one steadying hand upon his shoulder, and with his cousin’s support he braved himself to look once more. As if caught in the viscosity of some suffocating nightmare his eyes ran over the knotted brand stamped beneath Maedhros’ left clavicle, the abhorrent device picked out in twisted scar-tissue amid the scatter of other, deeper marks. At last he could avoid it no longer, and with such crushing, awful anticipation he followed the twisted route of Maedhros’ right arm, the muscles there contorted into unnatural bunches beneath his skin. 

The gaping emptiness where his brother’s hand should have been stopped the breath clean in his lungs. 

Dark, swollen veins lanced up from beneath a ragged tourniquet, a strip of Fingon’s tunic torn off and secured tightly around the stump, its blue fabric soaked in gore.   

_You did this to him._

Maglor’s jaw trembled and faintness lapped at him once more, but savagely he pushed it aside, he forced himself to focus. He was no stranger to wounds or injuries of the battlefield. He did not have that innocence to profess anymore.

But this…

This was different.

This was so much worse.

Seeing his brother so abused, so _mutilated_ filled him with such anger, such abhorrence and hatred and guilt that the force of them felt like it would cleave his ribcage in two. 

“How,” he gulped at last, “how is he still _alive?_ ” 

Ashen-faced, Nyériel looked up at him, picking apart the fibrous threads of a plant-stem and casting them into the steaming bowl before her. 

“I do not know,” she said solemnly. “They say the ever-life of the Eldar is a gift. But now… now I am not so sure.”

Maedhros’ chest rose and fell in shallow little movements, each tiny flexion of his ribs was highlighted in horrific clarity beneath his frail skin.

“Is he… is he going to be…”

Looking once more at his brother’s right arm, Maglor’s words faltered as anger and despair rocked through him anew. The unfinished question hung in the air and desperately he looked to Nyériel for an answer. Calmly she regarded him, but all the poise and dignity that her craft demanded could not deny the melancholy note that wound through her voice as gravely she whispered, “I don’t know.” 

Maglor swayed, the cloying scent of the herbs sending his senses reeling. Resolutely Fingon held on to him, keeping him firmly upright, his own mouth set into a tight line at the healer’s grim pronouncement. The brooding silence that fell was quickly shattered by the apprentice’s return, an overflowing basket balanced precariously in her arms. Praying that Maglor would not suddenly faint, Fingon darted over to help her, and between them they balanced the basket upon the edge of the chest at the foot of the bed. 

“I have brought everything that you requested, mistress,” the apprentice declared, flicking the golden strands of her hair back from her sweaty brow. “And more besides that may be of use. In the stores I found some powdered peppermint, and some fresh leaves of aloe. The brand is set, and the rags boil as we speak. I will fetch them now.” 

“Good, good,” Nyériel muttered, poring through the basket’s contents. She picked out several herbs, and then began crushing them into a bitter-smelling paste within a small mortar.

“My lords,” she said, a clinical crispness to her voice as the pestle rolled in her hand. “I know that this is a trying time for you both, but I require now either your assistance or your absence. My patient shall not die this night, not under my watch, but I cannot treat him best with you two fluttering around over my shoulder. My sole duty of care lies with the wounded, not to nurse hurt feelings. 

The amputation at his wrist must be cauterized. Undoubtedly my lord Fingon has saved his life with the tourniquet by stemming the flow of blood, although from your description of his condition it is unlikely that there was much vascular integrity left. Nonetheless, the wound cannot be allowed to fester, and I fear that the underlying trauma to the tissue may yet have consequence.”

Tipping the ground herbs into the larger bowl, Nyériel moved over to the far side of the bed and crouched upon Maedhros’ right. Dipping a rag into the liquid, she began to bathe his marbled skin above the border of the tourniquet, the yellowish flesh there laced with burst, bruised capillaries. As the cloth moved over Maedhros’ wasted muscles she frowned, and more concernedly she began to probe at his arm. Following the swollen pattern of his veins she moved slowly upwards, her eyebrows knotting as she moved over his bony elbow and up to his biceps. 

“He was hanging, you said, my lord?”

“Yes,” Fingon replied softly. “By his right wrist he was fully suspended.”

Nyériel’s frown deepened, and delicately she squeezed at the oddly corded muscles of Maedhros’ upper arm. She ran the cloth over the jut of his clavicle, and at the mangled twists of tissue she found patterned over his shoulder her lips tightened. 

“My lord,” she said softly, looking over at Fingon who was still busy unpacking the basket’s almost legion contents. “My lord, if I might request your assistance. I need him held upright for a moment. I must assess his shoulder blade and the condition of his spine.”

At the gravity in her voice Fingon was dismayed, and Maglor’s eyes widened in alarm.

Quickly Fingon moved over and knelt upon the bed upon Maedhros’ left side, facing towards the headboard, and inch by painful inch they lifted his limp torso. Strips of skin peeled from his back as his shoulders came free of the sheets, leaving raw curls of clotted scabs and viscera stuck to the cloth beneath him. Carefully Fingon pulled him up, and Nyériel helped to support his head until at last they overreached the vertical and Maedhros tipped lifelessly forward into Fingon’s chest. Into the harsh light of day were thrust the wounds that scraped over his back, and at their extent Fingon heard Maglor choke.

Over the ugly wounds Nyériel wrung out the cloth, dripping the infusion over the inflamed skin there, yet for all their unpleasantness they were not her true concern. 

Gently she gripped his shoulder, slowly sliding her hands down his scapula, feeling each knot and whorl of muscle with excruciating clarity beneath his wasted frame. Over the flayed mess of his back she lightly skipped, moving instead to the sides of his ribs, yet even that slight motion sent fresh ribbons of watery blood trickling through her fingers. 

“His muscles are badly damaged,” she said at last. “Such a stressed position has exacted its toll upon his  _hröa,_  and for one to endure it for so long… The rotator cuff of his shoulder is maimed beyond what I have the skill to repair. His deltoid is torn completely, and it is likely that the rhomboids and his trapezoid have suffered also, though until there is some healing in the skin above them it will be difficult to tell of the extent of the damage. By some fortune his spinal cord still seems aligned, although the intercostal muscles of his ribs are desperately weak. The biceps, triceps and adductors will heal with time, I think, but what extent of use he will have of them I cannot say.  

What concerns me most, however, is the girdle itself. His clavicle no longer aligns with the scapula; the ligaments here have ruptured under the stress of holding his weight and the entire socket is badly misaligned. Even relieved of the stress now, and under my care, I have doubts as to whether it might ever realign properly. And what damage there is to his nervous system it is impossible to tell. If the axillary nerve has been severed then there is little hope.”

“What are you saying, then?” Fingon said, a pleading note creeping through his voice no matter how hard he strove for neutrality.

“My lords, I do not know whether he will ever have use of his arm again. The damage here is too great, and it has been inflicted for too long. Even with all of my years of knowledge, I do not know if it can be restored into even the semblance of usage.” A dreadful silence hung in the air and taking a deep breath, Nyériel continued, “Professionally, I would counsel an amputation of the entire limb.”

“No!” Maglor spluttered, and Fingon looked on in shocked silence. “No! Please, there must be some other way. There must be something else that you can do!”

“I know that this is a distressing time, majesty, but I fear that this will be the consequence in the end. We can wait and see with time what may come to pass, but I worry that for your brother’s sanity it might be more prudent to act now.”

“No! No, please. Please, wait until he wakes. Give him time. It will heal, it _will_ heal, I know it…” 

“Majesty, there is no certainty of that.”

“B-but…”

“We wait,” Fingon said curtly. “He has endured this far, and I have not lost faith yet that in time he may be healed. I will do all that I can; I will help him with the recovery that will be required, this I swear. But we wait. We will not steal this from him. We will not deny him this chance, no matter how slim.” 

“Very well, if this is your final decision,” Nyériel replied sadly. “But I cannot guarantee that you will see the results that you wish for. Set him back down, my lord. There, gently does it. There are other things that must be attended to before I dress the wounds upon his back.”

The apprentice at that moment returned, a cauldron of bubbling water held before her. Swiftly she set it down upon the chest, and Nyériel moved back over to it, crumbling atop its simmering contents a handful of _athelas_. Its fragrant, spicy scent wafted through the air, but through its pleasantry Nyériel’s voice cut. “The brand should be heated. Check on it now, and at my call bring it forth.”

“Right away, mistress.” The apprentice ducked out of the tent once more, this time by its concealed back entrance, and through the breeze-stirred flaps Fingon could just make her out crouching at the ready beside a smouldering campfire.

“Brand?” Maglor asked faintly. “What brand?” 

Fingon, having arranged Maedhros’ head delicately among the pillows, wiped his hands clean upon a spare rag and stepped back over to Maglor. 

“They must cauterize the wound, Káno. My… severance of his wrist was not sterile. It was done in haste, and for his wrist to heal aright the skin must be sealed.” 

“Oh…” Maglor murmured, the room for an instant blurring before his eyes, before snapping rigidly back into clarity.

Nyériel moved back to Maedhros’ right side, and gently took hold of his arm. Tenderly she began to unwrap the bindings of the tourniquet, and caught by some awful, morbid curiosity Maglor found that he could not look away, the rhythmic pass of that gore-streaked cloth becoming strangely hypnotic. At last she eased the cloth free and with cool professionalism examined the stump of his brother’s arm. Raw, reddened flesh shone in horrific clarity against the white bedspread, and between the striated mess of sheared muscles and tendons, bone gleamed a pinkish ivory. As Nyériel began to wipe away the gore with a boiled rag Maglor’s stomach lurched, that curiosity vanished, and in utter revulsion he turned aside.

As if from some great distance, faintly he heard Nyériel remark, “He was fortunate, my lords. His suspension in itself halted much of the blood-flow to the site, and the amputation was smoother than I expected. The carpals split cleanly, and the end of his radius remains intact. A relief indeed, my lords, as it is a much more simple matter of sealing the wound outright that lies before us, instead of the surgery I so feared.” 

Grimly Maglor nodded, and Fingon’s hand gripped tightly about his upper arm.

“The cauterization must be performed now, my lords, before infection can be allowed to set in. Fortunately my patient remains unconscious; but nonetheless the procedure is not… pleasant. I would advise that you leave us, especially you, your majesty. This day has been difficult enough.” 

“No…” Maglor protested weakly, “No, I have to…”

“Káno,” Fingon began, and his voice brokered little argument. “Káno, you should go.”

“W-what? No, no, I’m fine.” A wave of faintness flooded through him once more, and fiercely he pushed it aside, hoping that Fingon would not notice the tremble that shook through him. “I’m fine. I – I have to be here. I have to see it... I have to see what my inactions have wrought.” 

“Káno, this is pointless. Self-imposed punishment will not aid you here, and nor would Nelyo want you to suffer more on his behalf. You do not have to see this.”

“But…”

“I will stay with him,” Fingon said, half dragging Maglor towards the tent’s exit. “I will stay, and if anything happens, if even the slightest thing goes wrong then I will find you. This must be done, and swiftly, and you have endured enough horror for this day.”

With Fingon’s hand clamped around his arm, Maglor was steered through the tent’s flaps. Outside Fingon finally released him, and in vague protest Maglor turned back to him. 

“But what about you? Will – will you be all right?” 

“I will be fine,” Fingon replied gravely. “I will finish what I have started.”

Nyériel’s call emanated from inside the tent and Maglor flinched, rocking involuntarily forward on his toes as a vice seemed to crush around his chest.

“Káno, go back to your tent. Send word to your brothers; set the messengers riding without delay. Send them also to my father, and to whomever else you see fit. Will you do that?” 

Wordlessly Maglor nodded, and with that sense of purpose a modicum of calm returned to him. No matter how small, here was something that he could do besides fret, and tightly he clung to that, a slender lifeline amid the undertow of helplessness and shock that threatened to drown him.

“I have to go now,” Fingon said soothingly, as if talking to an upset child. “I have to go, but I promise, I will not fail you.” 

Maglor nodded once more, and Fingon ducked back inside the tent. 

The sunset glimmered over the lake’s rippling surface upon the far outskirts of the encampment, and against that ruddy glare Maglor shielded his eyes. Wordlessly he walked back to his own tent, and words could not suffice for the broil of emotions that broke within him: terror and loss and guilt and anger cracking and moiling in bitter, acrid warfare at the base of his stomach. 

His brother was delivered. 

Their rightful king was returned. 

But the hurt that he brought back with him was almost more than he could bear.

 

* * *

 

Erm, well, I hope you've enjoyed that so far, and a huge thank-you to the people who were so supportive of the inception of this idea! (You know who you are.)

I promise that the next chapters will be updated MUCH quicker than my previous writing efforts, assuming that you don't all turn around and say you hated it. There is far more yet to uncover...  


	2. Belladonna

“It's done, Káno.”

Several hours had passed since Maglor had sent the messengers galloping off into the dusk, and hastily he retreated back to his brother’s side. Fingon stood over Maedhros' still unconscious form and delicately draped a blanket over him, tucking its soft folds around his sides and fussing with its edge as a mother might do for a sickly child. “Nyériel cauterized the wound without complications, and now the process of healing proper may begin.” 

“Good,” Maglor murmured, his lip twisting involuntarily as once more he beheld his brother’s piteous form.

The healers had cropped his hair back to behind his ears, and in the glowing candlelight its russet ends curled over his pallid, scarred cheeks. He looked so much younger that way, Maglor thought. So much more fragile. So much more _breakable_. With a sigh he looked away, his eyes wandering down to the top of his brother's chest. What of it emerged from beneath the blanket was mostly swaddled in thick, padded bandages. The healers had disinfected the wounds across his back and stitched up what they could, Fingon explained, and over the angry flesh set soothing compresses of birch-bark and arnica to bind.

Through the all the procedures Maedhros had not moved, Fingon said. He lay as one dead, and only with the greatest of care had they lifted his limp body, Fingon cradling him to his chest as the healers had worked, supporting his head and neck gently against his shoulder as one would hold a newborn. Indeed even as Maedhros lay before him, it was only the shallow rise and fall of his chest that assured Maglor that he was still alive.

“Did they say when he might wake?” he asked, glancing concernedly over at Fingon.

A hand passed over his cousin’s haggard-looking face, and for a moment both of them were silent. All too keenly Maglor was aware of the toll that this was exacting upon Fingon as well, and with patience he awaited the reply.

“They do not know,” Fingon said sadly, an unfocused haze seeming to cloud over his eyes, and his voice died away to an oddly muted monotone. “Since I… freed him upon the mountainside he has remained... inert. He fainted in my arms and ever since he has not stirred. He did not even flinch as the brand pressed to him…”

Sorrowfully Maglor eyed the clean bandages that wrapped around the end of his brother’s right arm that Fingon had left tenderly exposed atop the covers. Turgid, bruised veins darted up the scarred expanse of his forearm, and against their murk the whiteness of the cloth was painfully stark. 

“Did… did Nyériel give him something?” With difficulty Maglor ripped his gaze away from his brother's injuries and looked slowly back to Fingon. “To help him sleep, or for the pain?” 

“No,” Fingon sighed, his disheveled braids tipping over his shoulders as his head bowed slightly. “What would be the use, anyway? He is beyond feeling…” A tremor seemed to run through Fingon’s shoulders, and jerkily he looked back up. “There is little that even the strongest of herbs can do now. She said we must be patient, and in time he will return to us.” 

A question hovered on Maglor’s lips, a question that he was not sure he wanted to know the answer to. Delicately he sat upon the very end of the bed, his throat tightening as all the closer he glimpsed the scars etched into his brother’s skin. His fingers curled tightly about the blanket, and eventually he brought himself to ask, “Did she say what might happen when he wakes? Will he… will he be…”

“I do not know. They could not say...” Fingon’s jaw wobbled and he clamped it shut, gritting his teeth together painfully hard. His head tilted back and rapidly he blinked up at the sloped canvas ceiling, the muscles in his throat flexing under his skin as he murmured, “I don’t know what they did to him, Káno. I don’t know how long he was there on the mountainside, I don’t know what they did to him b-before…" 

Fingon’s chin crinkled, and sensing the note of impending hysteria in his voice Maglor arose to pull his cousin into a massive bear-hug as he saw Fingon's knees begin to buckle. 

“He asked me… H-he asked me to…” Fingon stammered, his face pressed into Maglor’s shoulder as at last his composure shattered, as adrenaline and purpose faded and shock truly began to bite.

“Shhh, Finno, it’s okay,” Maglor whispered, holding his cousin all the tighter as he felt the sobs begin to rack through him, and Fingon gripped desperately into his tunic. Grief bubbled up within his own throat, but as if to fill the void of control within the room his will hardened, and firmly he said, “Finno, it’s all right. You have returned Nelyo to us. Through your bravery and your hardship he is here, and he is safe. Whatever should come to pass now, this valiant deed happened because of you, and no other. And no matter what happens, I will stand by you, I promise.”

“B-but what if he’s _angry_ with me,” Fingon whimpered. “He – he asked me to…” 

“No, Finno. No, he will not be angry,” Maglor replied, an inexplicable sense of certainty seeping through him. “He will not be angry with you, and even if he is, then he will forgive you. You know that, don’t you? He would do anything for you.” 

“But…”

“Finno,” Maglor said sternly, pulling his cousin from his embrace to grip him firmly about the shoulders, and he stared hard into Fingon’s bloodshot eyes. “Did you not yourself say that self-imposed punishment is futile? Nelyo would not want this of you, not now, do you understand?”

Fingon looked away miserably, and perhaps more roughly than he intended to, Maglor shook him.

“Look at me!” he commanded, and in his voice something terrible trembled. “You have done no wrong by your actions, as cruel as they might seem. What he asked of you upon that mountainside no longer matters: it is what you _did_ that defines us now.” 

With watery eyes Fingon at last met his gaze, and faintly he nodded.

“Now,” Maglor said more gently, his hands relaxing about Fingon’s shoulders, “retire yourself for the night.”

At the beginning of Fingon’s inevitable protest Maglor smiled tiredly, cutting over him: “You have done much this day, and seen more than anyone should ever have to. You are exhausted, and you must rest. I will not have both my brother _and_ my cousin laid low in the infirmary. To bed with you, now.” 

“You sound like my mother,” Fingon pouted, but as if to provide unwarranted confirmation to Maglor’s words he yawned. Desperately he fought to conceal the rather inelegant contortions of his tear-stained face, and at his efforts Maglor arched an eyebrow. 

“Rest, Finno. I will stay by him for the night. I am expecting the arrival of Turko come the dawn, if not before, for I do not think he rode far from the encampment on his last hunt. The others will come as the envoys reach them, but I suspect they will not be far behind. You will need your strength for the morrow.”

Stifling another bone-rattling yawn, Fingon allowed himself to be prevailed upon. Wearily he bade Maglor goodnight and then slipped out of the tent, weaving through the camp to Maglor’s own royal tents, a sub-section of which he had been allotted for the night.   

At Fingon’s departure Maglor sighed, closing the canvas tent-flaps firmly behind him. Remorsefully he looked over to Maedhros once more, searching for any signs of life upon his brother’s face. But his hope did not avail him. As one devoid of both feeling and emotion Maedhros slept, propped up by the mountain of soft pillows behind his back. With increasing desperation Maglor’s eyes wandered the planes of Maedhros’ face, at once familiar and so painfully foreign. His cheekbones jutted all too sharply beneath his closed eyes, the freckles that smattered over his nose and cheeks were near bleached away by the deathly pallor of his skin.

Tearing his gaze away, Maglor crossed over to a chest of drawers set opposite the bed, a recent addition to the tent given his brother’s condition and the likely length of his stay. Atop it a pot of tea had been left to steep and he poured out a mug-full, the sweet scent of chamomile at once stroking over the clutch and twinge of his nerves. From a stack of books set upon the oak chest at the foot of the bed he took the topmost one: a hefty philosophical work written by Halatir, one of the great Vanyarin scholars.

Amid a pile of cushions that someone had thoughtfully left to the right of the bed he nestled himself, a warm lantern set glowing next to him. From here he could watch over his brother with ease whilst attempting to inform himself of something of Maedhros’ condition.

Such severe abuse was unprecedented amongst the people of the Eldar, but long ago speculative works about the healing of grave hurts had been written under the tutelage of the Valar. Nienna poured her bittersweet griefs into the wounds of the earth, Yavanna’s shady arbours hosted many piquant herbs that possessed curative properties: a sly converse to the Dream-lord’s mazes of wolfsbane and hemlock. And Estë, kindest and gentlest of all her kin walked sometimes upon the shores of her lake, and imparted words of both sorrow and healing to the most needing of folk. 

Estë, Maglor thought sadly, sipping at his tea. If only Maedhros’ plight could bring her walking.

But her mercies he and his kindred had long since forsaken, and to face all the cruelties of the world they were left alone.  

 

* * *

 

A fanfare of trumpets jerked Maglor from an uneasy sleep. Anxiously he glanced over to where Maedhros lay, and to his surprise noticed Nyériel leaning across him. He scrambled to his feet, brushing his mussed hair back from his face and closing the book that was left cracked open beside the burnt-out lantern. As he arose Nyériel smiled at him, and at the concerned expression that clouded over his face she quickly said: “There is nothing to worry about, your majesty. Your brother’s condition remains unchanged. I thought it best to let you sleep while I dressed his wounds anew.” 

“Thank you,” Maglor murmured, rubbing the sleep from his sore eyes with the backs of his knuckles. He walked over to the bed, peering worriedly down at his brother. But it was as Nyériel had said: Maedhros remained static, his chest rising and falling in shallow, steady motion as he slept. Maglor sighed, wincing slightly as the glimpse of his brother’s truncated arm stabbed its blame once more through him. 

Slowly he moved aside, crossing over to the chest of drawers where to his surprise he found a fresh mug of tea awaiting him. Gratefully he smiled at Nyériel over it, blowing on it gently as he wandered back over. 

“Do you think he will awake today?” he asked, before sipping timidly at the tea, half afraid of the answer.

“It is difficult to say,” she replied, laving Maedhros’ right arm in a cool infusion of _athelas._ Her fingers carefully massaged the knotted muscles of his upper arm as the cloth passed over them, as she tried still to assess the severity of their atrophy. “Your brother’s case is unparalleled in the history of our people. I cannot tell you what to expect, in truth. It is possible that he may awaken today, or in a week’s time, and be no better or worse for the difference. Shock and trauma work in ways beyond our ken, your majesty, and his _fëa_ must once more regain mastery of the _hröa_ if he is to recover.” 

Solemnly Maglor nodded. Halatir’s book of which he had read last night had spoken of such things: that the _fëa_ must be the master of the _hröa_ , the spirit must innervate the body, and only from that unity could a person be whole, or could healing rightly begin. Worriedly Maglor glanced over Maedhros’ pale cheeks, over the scars that patterned in ugly white ridges over his flesh, over the corrupted juncture of his right shoulder.

If this was the ruined state of his body, then he did not even want to begin to imagine what torments his _fëa_ had been subjected to.

Guilt clawed through him anew, and with difficulty he pushed such fell thoughts aside. Grim speculation would not aid anything, and he needed to be as clear-headed as he could in dealing with the consequences of his return. For a few moments more he sipped at his tea, the spices prickling pleasantly down his throat and somehow helping to settle the nervousness that churned in his stomach. In placid silence Nyériel finished her ablutions of his brother, and then began to gather up the much diminished pile of her medical supplies. 

Gradually the sounds of daybreak filtered through the thick canvas of the tent. Pots clattered upon campfires, boots tramped to early watches at their borders, and the susurrus of gentle conversation murmured through the air. But through such placid sounds sliced something far more potent, and far more perilous. Fingon’s steady voice rang from outside, his precise words muffled by the tent’s flaps, and a second later a much more tightly-strung one snapped something in reply. 

A moment later a knock rapped upon the tent post outside, and gathering his strength for the oncoming meeting Maglor bade them enter.

No sooner had the words left his lips then did one party member dash inwards, streaking past Maglor with a flash of blond hair and the lingering smell of horse. Rather more sedately then did Fingon enter, followed by a wolfhound whose back stood to the height of his waist.

“Nelyo!” Celegorm cried, slinging a backpack from his shoulder to the floor as he dove towards his brother lain within the bed. “Nelyo?” he repeated more uncertainly, a thickness clotting in his voice as his eyes darted over what of Maedhros’ marred flesh remained still exposed. “Nelyo? Nelyo, it’s me…” 

Maglor set aside his mug, and Fingon stepped quietly over to him. Together they stared down at Celegorm, whose chestnut eyes glimmered as he turned back to face them.  

“Is… is he going to…” Celegorm whispered, disbelief and dismay pounding through him. “Finno, you said… you said he…”

Celegorm’s breath cut off in a taut hiss as he sighted Maedhros’ maimed arm. An unflattering vermilion mottled over his cheeks, and he stepped back a few paces, his hands clenching into fists by his sides. 

“Who did this?” he hissed. 

At the livid silence that fell his face twisted, and near manically he stared at Fingon.

“ _Who did this?”_

Fingon froze, and Maglor stepped resolutely in front of him.

“It is the fault of the Enemy, Turko,” he said calmly. “What is done is done. Let us not throw discord amongst ourselves at such a time.” 

Celegorm squinted balefully at Maglor for a moment, a vein throbbing at the side of his neck. But after a tense second he exhaled, that blistering fury seeming to cool a little within him as he strove for a measure of decorum. With a lingering glance back to Maedhros he turned, not to his relatives but to Nyériel, who stood unobtrusively nearby.

“Mistress,” he snapped, “what herbs have you given him? Tell me, quickly.”

At his brusque tone Nyériel balked slightly, before cordially replying: “My lord, I have bound his wounds in poultices of birch-bark and aloe, and have washed his wrist thoroughly in an infusion of broiled _athelas_.”

“For the pain?” Celegorm demanded, looking at her urgently. “What have you given him?”

“Turko,” Maglor broke in, rather appalled by his brother’s rudeness. “She has done everything she can do, do not –“

“I know what I am doing, Káno,” Celegorm growled, his teeth gritted tightly together. “Kindly butt out.”

Nyériel sighed, before saying, “I have not given him anything for pain as yet, my lord. He has not regained consciousness enough for strong analgesics to be safely administered.” 

An awful spasm twisted over Celegorm’s face, and for a terrible moment Maglor thought that he was going to scream. But tightly Celegorm bit back that urge, and a strained sigh emanated from between his clenched teeth. Bitterly he glanced back over Maedhros’ prone form, and as he did so Huan padded over from beside the door, nudging at the top of Celegorm’s rucksack with his nose. 

“I see,” Celegorm finally breathed, the muscles of jaw working beneath his skin. The tension in his voice was plain, but with a brittle composure he continued, scraping his hair back from his face. “Forgive my rudeness, mistress. It was… improper of me.”

“It is forgotten, my lord.”

Huan huffed atop the rucksack, sniffing inquisitively at its contents before panting up at his master. Celegorm shooed him away, before moving swiftly over into a crouch and unfastening the pack's clasp.

“Káno’s messengers found me upon the southern banks of the lake, and afore my return I made sure to collect what herbs of use I could find.”

Jars clinked together as Celegorm opened up the pack, and curiously Maglor leaned forward. His brother rooted through the bag’s interior, and readily Nyériel moved over to him, accepting each jar or package that he pulled forth with an eager smile.

“A bushel of witch-hazel,” he declared. “Here, some leaves of feverfew, though less than I desired. Berries and leaves of belladonna…”

“Belladonna?” Fingon spluttered. “Turko, we’re trying to heal him, not poison him!”

“Well I am aware of that fact, dear cousin,” Celegorm replied icily. “A tincture of belladonna leaves may be prepared via a dilution within alcohol. Left to percolate for fourteen days, the toxicity of the plant-matter deteriorates, and when drained the solution may then be applied as a liquid sedative.”

As he talked, he continued to pull free yet more things from his pack. Soon a veritable armada of jars and wrappings cluttered over the chest as Nyériel set them carefully aside, and Maglor and Fingon looked on in amaze. 

“A salve of arnica,” Celegorm said, plucking a small metal pot from the bag’s depths. “It is of my own make, and a little crude I admit, but upon bruising there is no better remedy.”

A moment later he retrieved a large bundle wrapped in dampened cloth from the pack’s base. 

“Willow-bark,” he said, “from the trees that cluster upon the banks to the south. I stripped them myself: no cleaner strands will you find this side of the Sea. It is of better quality than birch-bark, the salycin in it is better refined, and blunts even the sharpest of pain.”

“How do you _know_ all of this?” Fingon murmured, a tentative awe thrumming through his voice. 

Finally Celegorm stood, the pack emptied. Huan huffed once more, then moved to sit attentively at his master’s heel, his tail wagging across the floor.

“Cousin,” Celegorm smiled thinly, “when one spends as much time amongst the wilderness as I do, one swiftly familiarises themselves with the local flora and fauna. Or more specifically, with what might kill you if you touch it, and what in an emergency might save your life. Oromë talked at length about the importance of such knowledge, and more than once it has aided a companion in distress.”

Fingon made some wordless noise of understanding, and not the least bit of admiration. As he did so, Celegorm turned to Nyériel, a more sober air coming over him. 

“Mistress, if you would have me, might I assist you in the preparation of whatever tinctures or medicines you apply to my brother? My knowledge, while not formal, is nevertheless sound; and I only wish to be of whatever use to you that I can, to better be able to help him.” 

“Oh, um, o-of course, my lord,” Nyériel stammered, a little taken aback at such a request. ”Your assistance would be most welcome, and I would be very happy to instruct you in what I know.”    

Suavely Celegorm bowed, affixing her with his most irresistible grin. Quickly though his flash of merriment faded, and a sombreness crept over him once more. 

“Káno, might I speak with you outside?” 

Maglor glanced over at Fingon, and seeing the assent upon his face acquiesced. He glanced worriedly over Maedhros once more, before abruptly turning aside and ducking through the tent’s entranceway. Celegorm then nodded politely to Nyériel, and to Fingon, who smiled faintly at him in return. He spun about on his heel and whistled to Huan, who in the absence of attention had begun to snuffle at Maedhros’ motionless fingertips.

“Come, Huan,” Celegorm bade. “Stop terrorising my brother. Surely that has been done quite enough.”

Huan whined softly, but trotted obediently after Celegorm as he strode from the tent, leaving Fingon and Nyériel alone to supervise Maedhros for the time being. 

Outside, Celegorm glanced about to find Maglor standing a short distance away, staring with a rather glazed expression at the bustle of the campsite around him. 

“Káno,” Celegorm called, but upon receiving no hint of a reply he moved over to his brother, gently steering him about the side of the tent so that they were mostly obscured from casual view. “Káno?” 

With what seemed like a colossal effort of will Maglor dragged his focus onto Celegorm, staring blankly up at him as he frowned concernedly back.

“Káno, are you all right?”

Maglor did not answer, and slowly his gaze slipped from Celegorm’s bright eyes and into the shadows that clotted about their feet. 

“I confess,” Celegorm continued, subtly trying to refocus Maglor’s worryingly scattered attention. “I did not know what to expect even as Finno spoke of Nelyo's condition. It is poor, but it is manageable, I think. I will spare no effort in his recovery, of that I swear, and I do not doubt that in time he will pull through. He will come back to us, Káno. He has to.”

“Mmm…”

Celegorm’s lip twisted, and more sharply he said, “It is now you over whom I worry.” 

“Don’t…” Maglor muttered, glaring sullenly down at the ground beneath Celegorm’s riding boots. 

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t waste your pity on me,” Maglor spat, rancour shining in his eyes as he lifted them suddenly to his brother’s face. “I do not deserve it.” 

He made to pull away, but quickly Celegorm grabbed his shoulder, pinning him into place with his back against the canvas flaps of an adjacent tent.

“Macalaurë,” he began, his tone threatening the launch into a lecture, an unfortunate trait of their mother’s that Celegorm appeared to have inherited most strongly indeed. “This is exactly what I am talking about. I – “ 

“I’m _fine,_ Turko,” Maglor snapped, yanking himself away. Celegorm’s eyes narrowed, but glimpsing the shadows that mottled like bruises beneath Maglor’s tired eyes, he wisely dropped the argument. A second passed in brittle silence, until at last Maglor sighed, “So you’re staying, then?”

“Where else would I go?” 

With a strange air of reticence Maglor turned his head aside, and Celegorm softly continued, “I will assist the healers for as long as they will have me, and I will see him recovered.”

“Fine.”

“Káno,” Celegorm murmured, peering both earnestly and in confused concern at his brother in the wake of such a curt reaction. “He is my brother too. And Curvo’s, and Moryo’s, and Pityo’s when undoubtedly they arrive. We care about him just as much as you do.” 

Maglor sniffed, drawing himself up archly, his jaw working with some barely-suppressed emotion that Celegorm did not want to know the name of. Celegorm merely looked on, a quiet melancholy shivering in his eyes, until finally he said, “You do not have to shoulder this burden alone.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I say how simply astounded I am at the reception that the first chapter of this story received. And how much it's wound up the pressure not to cock up the coming ones!  
> Well, I hope you enjoyed this little installation, and the subsequent one is swiftly underway.  
> Until next time, my lovelies.


	3. Sage

The day dragged on in moody solemnity.

True to his promise, and after changing into a clean shirt and breeches, Celegorm stayed among the healers. Under Nyériel’s watchful eye he eagerly assisted as they ground up the long strips of willow-bark that he had brought, briefly boiling the wood to sterilise it and then crushing it into a grainy paste within a mortar and pestle. When applied to the skin, it had a mild anti-inflammatory and pain-relieving effect, and until Maedhros awoke they could risk giving him no stronger analgesics. The jeopardy of administering more potent substances to his already ravaged body might far outweigh the benefits of their effects, so tentatively they clung to the most forgiving of medicines that they could. 

Nyériel spoke of many other herbs, and manners in which they might be given to an ailing person; pressed oils of yellow elecampane for digestive aid and antiseptic use, sphagnum moss to staunch bleeding, flowers of purple lousewort that might be applied as a rudimentary muscle relaxant. Keenly Celegorm listened to all that she had to say, and such knowledge he paid for in kind, as he showed all of the healers how best to distill the essence of belladonna from its leaves. Dropping their lightly crushed stems into jars full of sterile alcohol, several such bottles were stored away for future use, for the leaves required steeping for a fortnight to lose their toxicity and take on more sedative qualities.

Ever and anon Celegorm was pleasant, and he chatted readily with everyone who assisted in the medical preparations, trading tidbits of information and advice gathered from long years of practical, if informal, experience. Huan pattered amongst the large marquee, sniffing curiously at broils of esoteric spices and piquant herbs, determined not to be ignored even amid such delicate preparations. 

Some time later that afternoon Maglor passed by the preparation tent, glimpsing within its wide mouth Celegorm, who was engaged in a rather heated discussion with an apprentice over the best remedies for lameness in a horse. But for all his apparent enthusiasm in the conversation, the instant that Celegorm caught sight of Maglor’s shadowed silhouette he broke off, and looked intently over to him. 

The smile that he wore was broad, but Maglor could see the fearful question in his eyes. 

Softly Maglor shook his head, and with a strange look caught somewhere between relief and dismay Celegorm swung back around. He grinned airily down at the apprentice once more, before picking up the conversation again with ostensible ease. And if his hands seemed to tremble a fraction beyond their wont, if he tore apart a strip of bark with far more violence than was necessary then the apprentice made no comment. The younger elf merely smiled politely, before engaging his lord once more about the most obvious symptoms of laminitis, and how best they might be countered. 

Along the way back to Maedhros’ tent Maglor detoured to the kitchens, procuring for himself and Fingon some bread and a knob of cheese before continuing on once more. Heads inclined as he strode through the camp, demure murmurs of ‘your majesty’ swirled around him, sorrowful eyes flickered over him, and wanly he smiled at those whom he passed. It was rude of him, he thought, it was selfish, he should pay better attention to his people than this. But somehow he just couldn’t quite bring himself to care; their problems seemed to pale in comparison against the magnitude of his own. And he knew it was conceited, he knew that they deserved far better from him than this vague dismissal, but still he could not rally himself to it.

They didn’t quite seem to matter anymore.  

Eventually he reached Maedhros’ tent, and he slipped inside, suddenly grateful for its warm tranquillity, a place where he could at least for a while escape those prying, pitying eyes. He stepped across the carpet, and from the pile of cushions upon the far side of his brother’s motionless form Fingon raised his head, looking up from the thick book split open across his lap.

“There has been no change,” his cousin said wearily, beginning to extricate himself from the indentures of the cushion pile. “The healers changed his bandages a couple of hours ago, and Turko observed. They said the stitches had held well, and that the wounds on his back show less inflammation than they did previously. That is something, I suppose... But still he did not react, he didn’t even flinch as they wiped the abrasions clean…” 

“Did they say anything else?” Maglor asked anxiously. “Did they say when he might wake up?” He scanned desperately over his brother’s pale cheeks, searching for any sign that he might have heard them, some tiny difference in him that might indicate his recovery. But Maedhros lay static, his cheeks as pallid as ever, and Maglor’s efforts were in vain.  

“No,” Fingon sighed, stretching his back from its stiff positioning among the cushions. “They said only that we must be patient, and that we must have hope.”

A slight rill of frustration bloomed in Maglor’s stomach. What kind of an answer was that?  How could they _not know_?

Two chairs had been thoughtfully left in the tent’s corner, and with a slightly rancorous air Maglor pulled one over to the chest that lay at the foot of the bed, and beckoned for Fingon to do the same. Using the low chest as a makeshift table, he set down the cloth-wrapped bundle of bread and cheese, before sinking heavily back into the chair.

“I brought food,” he said blandly. “I thought you might be hungry.”

“Much obliged,” came Fingon’s response, as he set his own chair at the opposite end of the chest.

A heavy silence settled between them as each helped himself to the food. In that void of conversation desperately Maglor tried to stop himself from glancing too frequently over at Maedhros. But all too soon, and for what felt like the millionth aching time his eyes skated over the scars that puckered over his brother's skin, the burns that still had not faded, the gnarled whip-lines that peeked about the bony curl of his shoulders. With a conscious effort of will Maglor at last wrenched his gaze away, and more to distract himself than out of genuine interest he asked Fingon: “What were you reading? Anything interesting?”

“An old work,” Fingon intoned, chewing around a particularly large mouthful of bread. “A poem written by Issiel, one of Nessa’s handmaidens. It is pretty enough, I guess. And, you know, it’s a diversion.” 

Maglor nodded slowly, turning his attention back to balancing a little chunk of cheese atop his corner of the loaf.

“But,” Fingon continued, “one of the books spoke of the Ainulindalë, and how each of the Ainur sung his or her piece into the tapestry of Arda. Through each of their songs, it said, they brought something of themselves into being, into life. And I was thinking, I mean, maybe we should do something like that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe,” Fingon murmured, a slightly bashful tone to his voice, “maybe we should sing to him? I could play, and you could sing, if you liked…”

“Do you think that it would help?” Maglor’s voice was sharp, and with a knife-like urgency he looked over at his cousin.

“I – I’m not sure. But I sang to him before. In the wastes of those mountains that is how I found him. I sang, and then far above me an answering voice came…” 

“You did not tell me this.”

At the flare of venom in Maglor’s voice, Fingon shrank back, his eyes shimmering with dismay.

“I did not think it mattered,” he said uncertainly. His gaze flickered over to Maedhros’ prone form. “There were things of more importance.” 

“I’m sorry,” Maglor whispered, a sudden sweep of guilt washing through him. “I did not mean to be harsh. It’s just… it’s just hard, you know?”

He smiled lamely, and ruefully Fingon looked back at him. Maglor fiddled with the hunk of bread in his hands, tearing a bit off to crumble it over the chest top, watching with some vaguely sadistic pleasure as the breeze sent the crumbs scattering down to the floor.

“It’s fine,” Fingon said at last. “It was a silly idea anyway. I just thought that, maybe if he’s lost somewhere, if his _fëa_ wanders, then maybe it would help him to find his way back.”  

Hurt twisted all the harder in Maglor’s stomach, but suddenly he commanded: “Fetch your harp, Finno. I do not know whether this will have effect, but little harm can it do. And surely it is better than sitting idle, lest things begin to fester that should not.” 

Fingon nodded, before swiftly departing the tent, a hopeful little smile curling over his face. Upon his return, Fingon seated himself upon the edge of the bed and struck up a lilting tune, his fingers dancing over the short strings of his harp. Over those flowing notes Maglor sang, his tempered voice crooning a lullaby that had long been passed down amid the people of the Noldor, of a knight who wished to ride among the silver light of the stars. As the soft words poured over his lips, wistfully Maglor smiled, remembering the days under Laurelin’s gentle radiance where he and Maedhros had played about his father’s house, pretending at quests and adventures. Maglor had chased his elder brother about, a wooden play-sword clutched in his chubby fist as he toddled around the pillars of the entrance-hall. And Maedhros had run and giggled before him, weaving through the pillars as he played the damsel in distress, pursued relentlessly by some terrible foe as Maglor laughed and tottered after him.  

There was no need for such pretences anymore, Maglor thought sadly.

Fingon played on, and with the subtle change in his notes Maglor sang, recounting childish songs and cradle-tales; simple, pure little things untainted by the wearing of the years. But where so ardently he had hoped for some effect, he came to sore dismay. For Maedhros did not stir, he showed no reaction at all, his frail chest merely continued to rise and fall in its shallow, measured rhythm. But, Maglor thought suddenly amid a complex melody of notes, it almost seemed like he slept more peacefully, that the quirk of his lips was a fraction less forlorn. And whether it was true, or just some desperate figment of his imagination Maglor did not care, and he clung tightly to that resolution. Wherever his brother’s consciousness wandered, that he _could_ hear them play Maglor was so terribly sure, for to give in to the alternative was to crumble to utter desolation.

Some time later, an elaborate fanfare interrupted their music. Smoothly Fingon plucked his harp to a quavering finale, and Maglor finished his last thrumming word. The pound of galloping hoof beats drew nearer, and about them the indistinct cry of voices was raised. Abruptly those hoof beats pulled to a halt outside the tent, accompanied by the muffled murmur of voices and the snort of wearied horses. 

A few fragile seconds of peace passed, and both Fingon and Maglor tried to compose themselves for what was undoubtedly the arrival of yet more of their kin. They did not have long to wait however, as a sharp knock came at the tent post, and with a steadying glance at Fingon, Maglor bade them enter.

Caranthir ducked first through the tent flaps, his cheeks flushed with the exertion of their hurried ride. With a haughty sort of courteousness he nodded to both Fingon and Maglor, who both rose to stand attentively beside the bed. Behind him Curufin slipped in, his eyes like pools of cimmerian ink that reflected nothing of his inner mood. He brushed his hair back from his pale cheeks, before without further courtesy or acknowledgement stepping over to the bed. Caranthir followed in his wake, and grimly they beheld their brother.  

At the sight of Maedhros’ missing hand Caranthir bridled, his flush deepening to a ruddy crimson as he strove to remain silent, his jaw quivering with the effort as he beheld more closely the severity of their brother’s defilement. In icy contrast stood Curufin, who observed Maedhros with an air of terrifying impassivity. His eyes scraped over his pallid cheeks, over the irregular twist of muscles at his right shoulder, over the ungainly stump of his arm, and yet he did not react, he just stood there, watching. But for all his coolness Maglor noticed how Curufin’s hand tightened about the handle of his knife; the tendons over the back of his hand strained beneath his skin, and under them veins stood livid. For a time silence reigned, both Caranthir and Curufin stared down in mingled dismay and fury, and under the relentless grip of Curufin’s hand Maglor was half surprised that his knife-hilt did not buckle. 

After what seemed like hours of rigid, unyielding quiet, Curufin at last cleared his throat, and asked in a low voice, “Has he said anything?”

“No,” Maglor replied dully, the rote mechanism of his answer sounding stiff even to his own ears. “No, he has not awoken. The healers have seen to him, and Turko is assisting them in what he can.”

“Turko is here?” Curufin asked, his gaze drawn back to Maedhros’ right shoulder with a piercing intensity.

“Yes, he arrived back yesterday. Pityo I have had no word from, but I am sure he returns with all haste.”

“A family reunion,” Curufin mused darkly, his eyes not leaving Maedhros’ shoulder. “What a joyous occasion." 

“Not all the family.”

The stinging, sullen words slipped from Maglor’s lips before he ever intended them to, and far too late he came to stop them. 

The silence that fell was livid. A hideous pressure seemed to throb through the room, and was broken only by Caranthir’s strangled choke, an unnatural rasping noise that emanated from deep within his throat. Still though, he remained motionless, staring down at Maedhros with blistering force as his arms crossed tightly over his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” Maglor whispered, guilt cramping through his innards as hesitantly he stepped towards Caranthir. “I’m sorry, I – I didn’t mean –“

“Might I have a look at his shoulder?” Curufin interjected, looking sharply at Fingon while subtly tilting his head towards Maglor, the warning in his eyes plain. 

“Please,” Fingon said mildly, before interposing himself between Maglor and Caranthir’s glowering bulk, opening up a slight space of relief between them. 

In concerned silence they watched as Curufin rounded the bed, then with a striking tenderness brushed his fingers over Maedhros’ right shoulder. In the absence of any reaction to that touch, Curufin frowned, and then with a little more purpose he reached over to trace his fingertips along the too-prominent curve of Maedhros’ collarbone. He remained very still, almost as if listening intently for something, a grimace of concentration twisting over his face. 

For long seconds he traced his brother’s clavicle, and as his fingers reached its end at the malformed point of Maedhros’ shoulder he flinched, snatching his fingers away as if the skin there had burned him. More tentatively then he ran his hand along the topmost line of Maedhros’ shoulder, starting from the nape of his neck and once more terminating at its distal juncture. The troubled expression upon his face deepened, and as one might search for flaws amongst the most fragile of gemstones, lightly he tapped upon Maedhros’ deltoid. He leaned forward into the motion, with some uncanny ability appearing to feel for the reverberations of that pressure as it ran through each splayed tendon, each knotted muscle.  

At what he found there he blinked, and his lips set into a tight line. Quickly he looked back to where the bemused onlookers stood, asking, “Turko has seen to him?” 

“Yes,” Maglor began, and at the expression that flickered over Curufin’s face, worry curdled in his veins like soured milk. “He said –“

“I need to speak with him. Now. And the healers, whomsoever you can find.”

“What?” The beginnings of panic crackled through Maglor’s voice, and beside him Fingon paled. “Curvo… w-why?”

“Just send for them, please.”

For a moment nobody moved, each stood as if anchored dumbly to the spot. The swiftest to recover was Fingon, who nodded before making swiftly for the tent’s entranceway.

As he left, Curufin turned back to Maedhros, running his hands once more over the curl of his shoulder and down the clumsy twist of his bicep. 

“This is serious,” he frowned. “I am no healer, but with the complexities of the body I am familiar enough. His shoulder is nearly destroyed. The muscles here are collapsed, are _twisted_ , and the angles at which the bones meet are askew, severely so. Káno, you said in your message that he had been suspended, yes? Well, here we begin to see its repercussions. I fear for the integrity of the ligaments, and of his tendons I can discern nothing but waste. Turko I think will be able to offer more light on this matter, but it is likely that –“

“Curvo, stop.” Caranthir’s deep baritone rolled through the tent. “Please…”

Curufin sighed, but though his gaze was flecked with pity, steel rang in his voice.  

“Moryo, this is not the time for frailty or remorse. These are the facts of the situation, and we must rapidly approach a solution. Our eldest brother lies gravely wounded, and shirking about the issue is _not_ going to help him. His pectoral muscle here, you see, is bunched far too high up, it is distorting the run of his collarbone, it appears, and – “

Caranthir’s dusky complexion darkened further, and with one shuddering breath he strode from the tent, flinging the flaps savagely aside in as he stormed off into the camp. In despondent silence Maglor watched him go, and slowly turned back to Curufin, who rose to stand beside the bed.    

“He will come around,” Curufin said briskly, rolling his eyes. “For all his fearsome exterior, he has always been so sensitive to hurt or insult, even those not of his own making.”

Sagely Maglor nodded, recalling the years of their childhood spent watching Caranthir beg for Celegorm’s help in building a home for some squeaking chick tumbled from the nest, or the hours spent coaxing him from a sulk brought on by some insensitive comment about his embroidery. What fleeting, petulant things they turned out to be, in the end. 

Curufin sighed dismissively, before peering more intently at Maglor.

“Are _you_ all right?” he asked, suddenly noticing the dark circles that rimmed his eyes, and the ashen shade of his cheeks.

“I’m fine,” Maglor snapped, a sudden rush of irritation rising in him at the question. Why were they all so concerned about _him?_ It was Maedhros rather that they should focus their attentions upon. 

“Good,” Curufin murmured, although the glimmer in his eyes bespoke the doubt in his affirmation. 

A babble of conversation drew nearer from outside the tent, and from beyond its borders Celegorm’s smooth voice called: “You sent for us? Might we enter?” 

“Come in,” Maglor called, stepping aside as Celegorm entered, trailed by Fingon and Nyériel, who nodded politely to Curufin and Maglor in turn. Celegorm crossed over to Curufin, embracing him swiftly, and between the two a smatter of inaudible words passed. At last they broke apart, and steadily they turned to face the ensemble. 

“May I recommend,” Curufin began, “that Káno and Finno take some rest. Turko and myself shall see to Nelyo, with mistress Nyériel’s aid, if we might impose upon her time. There are matters here which we must discuss, and I must consult with them over what to do about his shoulder, for it cannot be left untended much longer.”

Even before he finished speaking a protest leapt to Maglor’s lips, but swiftly Celegorm interjected, “Káno, please take this opportunity for repose. Nelyo will be well tended, and no decisions of consequence will be made in your absence, this I swear. We wish only to examine him further, and ascertain the best method for his recovery.” 

“But…”

“Káno,” Fingon said, gently taking Maglor by the shoulder. “You’re exhausted, we both are. Let your brothers and Nyériel examine him. This surely they will be able to do all the better without us fluttering over them.”

Hesitantly Maglor looked over to his brothers, who smiled back at him in what compassion they could. Eventually he consented; tiny, irritating needles of reason at last poking through his reticence to leave, and he departed with Fingon, leaving Maedhros in his brothers' hands. 

In the late evening light, streaks of sunlight bathed the encampment’s white tents in a crimson wash. Through that red blankness the shadows of the barren trees cut, casting gnarled shadows over the canvas like scrawling veins of blood. In the cool air Maglor stood as one dazed, the figures of the camp sliding before his eyes without focus or meaning. Suddenly he was discharged from his duty, his watch however tenderly had been usurped, and that absence of purpose stuck its icy little thorns through him. And where they pricked tiredness and hurt trickled through, pooling like a slick of molten, poisonous lead in his stomach. 

Fingon softly took him by the arm, and limply he allowed himself to be guided through the encampment and back to his own tents. A dim apathy seemed to leach its cold tendrils through his chest as his cousin led him home, and so greatly he wished he could just surrender himself to its oblivion. Just for a moment, he wished, if only just for a single, stunning moment he could stop caring, if it could just stop hurting. And it sounded like the most selfish thing in the world: it was his _brother_ who was wounded, it was his brother who had suffered, but those cloying, self-pitying thoughts wound through him no matter how much he tried to elude them.

In an extension off of Maglor’s main cluster of tents Fingon had set up a makeshift bed, thrown together from an old couch and some strategically placed cushions. Into his little room he pulled his cousin, firmly sitting Maglor down before lighting a small candle upon a borrowed table before them. Its glow suffused the room in a comforting light, yet its warmth seemed to slide off his cousin, who stared blankly into the shadows that clotted at the tent’s corners, his eyes unfocused as grief and fatigue and hopelessness lapped their irrefutable little waves through him.

Upon the small box containing his scant possessions within the Fëanorian camp Fingon sat, gazing worriedly at Maglor. Finally the silence became unbearable, and as kindly as he could Fingon said, “They are only trying to help.”

For a moment he feared that Maglor would not answer him, and desperately he began to think of what else he might do to draw his cousin from such despondency. But after a few reluctant heartbeats Maglor swallowed, and looking down at his boots he whispered, “I do not want them to.”

Fingon winced, his throat hemming in painfully tight. Slowly he stood, and at the expression of such forlorn despair that broke over Maglor’s face he moved to sit beside him, his right arm wrapping firmly around his cousin’s shoulders. 

“I know,” Fingon murmured, a thickness welling up in his own voice. “I know you do not want them to. But you _must_ let them, Káno. You must. This is not your burden to bear alone.”

“Isn't it?” Maglor said, and bitterly he stared into the candlelight before them.

“No, it is not. This is _not_ your fault, Káno, and nor is it your right to carry this responsibility alone.” Fingon’s grip upon Maglor’s shoulder tightened, and forcefully he continued, “I do not care how many times I have to tell you, I will not stop until it bleeds into that stubborn skull of yours. This is not your fault. He is not your victim.”

At that Maglor swung around, knocking Fingon’s arm aside and glaring at him, his red-rimmed eyes set ablaze with fury. Steadfastly Fingon endured his stare, he let all of that hate and pain wash over him until amid its torrent he found once more his purpose, one little spark that ignited into a bright star of determination at the pit of his stomach.

“You are going to have to be strong, Káno,” he said. “You’re going to have to be stronger than anyone should ever have to be. In the coming days, all of them are going to need you. They are going to need you to be their strength too. And when Nelyo wakes up -”

“If he wakes up…”       

“- _when_ he wakes up, he is going to need you most of all.”

“But I _can’t_ , Finno, I can’t do this…” Maglor plead, his chin crinkling awfully as his poise finally began to crumble.

“Yes,” Fingon said, and his tone offered no remorse. “You can. And you _will_. Now is the time for bravery without splendour, and for strength that comes not from the swing of a sword.”

Maglor’s eyes glimmered as he lifted them finally to Fingon’s face, the reflections of the candlelight danced in wavering silhouettes against the constricted, black voids of his pupils.

“Will you help me?” he asked at long last, and the quaver in his voice betrayed just how much effort it took him to do so.

“Always,” Fingon replied, and dejectedly Maglor nodded, a fresh wave of tiredness washing through him.

“Come on,” Fingon said gently. “You are exhausted. To bed with you, and let the morrow come. With the sun new hope may yet arise.”

Fingon helped Maglor up, and holding him tightly by the arm walked him back to his own section of the tent’s divided chambers. At the entrance to Maglor’s bedchamber they paused, and gently Fingon extricated his arm from his cousin’s. He bade Maglor goodnight, and began the short retreat back to his own quarters. A few footfalls later however, he heard Maglor's whisper.

“How are you doing this? How can you be so… together?”   

A stab of some chill emotion knifed through Fingon’s guts, and he came to an abrupt halt, his shoulders trembling. A ruined, wavering smile curved painfully over his lips, and without turning back around he simply replied, “One of us has to be.”

 

* * *

Right. The board is set. The main players are assembled. Well, save for one, but he's riding at us with all due haste. Maglor's feeling sufficiently sorry for himself, now onwards to the technicalities.

If you guys don't leave here knowing some stuff about shoulder anatomy then I'm not doing this right.

Until next time.   

 


	4. Arnica

_This chapter does contain some quite detailed anatomical descriptions, so for the ease of the reader I have included some reference links where they might be most helpful._

_If anything is still woefully unclear by the end, do let me know, and I shall provide some greater clarifications in future chapters and/or answer your questions directly._

_Enjoy._

 

* * *

 

An uneasy dawn broke over the far distant horizon. The sun crept timorously over the shadowed mountains of the east and beneath her pallid rays Maglor strode through the camp. A wrack of clouds glowered in the northern sky, and beneath their broil bolts of silent lightning stabbed down into the ground, as if with their very brightness and fury they could cleave the earth open and gorge upon its entrails. An eerie quiet hung in the air; where Maglor would have expected the roar of a storm there was nothing but the tremulous calm of anticipation and a slow, brooding malevolence.

Bauglir, it seemed, did not look favourably upon the theft of what he deemed his property, whether he bore right to that claim or no.

Under that glooming menace the Fëanorian encampment weathered itself, and through the electrified air of its close-knit tents Maglor threaded his way. Feeling somewhat more composed from a night of mercifully dreamless sleep, he breakfasted among those of his councillors who were awake at such an early hour. At the high table of the dining tent they ate in a companionable silence, and quite to his surprise Maglor found himself stifling a morbid smirk or two as furtively he watched the ends of his councillors’ hair begin to curl in the charged air while he pretended to butter his toast.   

With the diplomacy beholden to their stations the councillors did not pry into sensitive matters, nor pass comment upon the poorly stifled smile that teased over their king's face as he caught them subtly trying to smooth their hair back down; the more vain among them twirling the ends of his hair between his fingertips with an air of affected nonchalance as he attempted to pull it straight. For the state of his own hair Maglor cared little. Already he could feel a few stray strands beginning to lift and prickle, and the smell of raw electricity hovered in the humid air. 

Soon their meal came to a close and such whimsies were set aside. Between them Maglor divided up the tasks that they were to be charged with, ensuring at least the ongoing stability of the camp whilst he was otherwise occupied. Repairs to the staked fences that ringed their borders were in progress, and to three he assigned the overseeing of them. To the remaining five was given the revision of the maps of the North-eastern region of Beleriand, as well as many a smaller odd task besides. As new forays were made further south and east from their current holdings the blank edges of the map were being filled in, and it took both skilled cartographers and academics to interpret the reports brought in by the scouts and render them into physical approximations upon a map.

Gracefully the councillors dispersed to their tasks, and for their lack of any patronizing comments of sympathy or condolence Maglor was thankful. Enough anguish wore at him without the weight of their pity heaped atop him too. Smoothing his own rather frizzed hair back down he ducked under the swelter of the sky, braving the bruise-coloured clouds for an instant before escaping into a kitchen tent. Swiftly he procured a cut of salt beef and a loaf of freshly baked bread before steeling himself for the day ahead.  

Maedhros had not yet awoken, of that he was sure. Strict instructions had been left to send word to him, no matter the time of day or night, should his brother regain consciousness.

He knocked softly upon the outermost post of Maedhros’ tent, eyeing the clouds above him with dismay. Their shade blotted out the sun, and malice turned in every roil and twist of their dark bellies. A tired voice from within the tent bade him enter, and Maglor stooped quickly beneath the tent’s flaps, grateful to escape the obsidian glower of the sky. 

But at what greeted him, such thankfulness vanished.    

Celegorm leant over Maedhros, bathing his forehead with a soaked cloth. Even from the distance with all too much clarity Maglor could see the little shivers that ran through Maedhros’ body, the beads of perspiration that shone over his skin, which had transmuted from pale to an altogether sickly pallor. In appalled silence he stared as Celegorm gently pushed the lank, sweaty strands of Maedhros’ hair back from his cheeks and ran the cloth over his skin.

“What's wrong?” Maglor hissed, his fingers clenching about the cloth bundle that held his food.

“A fever,” Celegorm replied, and with a swell of both pity and horror Maglor could hear the fatigue in his voice. “Earlier this morn he began to tremble, and his skin burned. Nyériel and I have done what we can, his dressings have been meticulously changed and all of his wounds cleaned, but…“

Celegorm’s eyes flitted to the severance at Maedhros’ wrist and the swollen skin that marbled his forearm. Maglor followed his gaze, and with dreadful concern he looked over the livid capillaries of that crawled beneath skin that was tinged bile-yellow and mauve with bruising.

“Is… is it serious?”

“It is too early yet to tell.” Celegorm dipped the cloth once more into a cool bowl of water, scented with some fragrant herb that Maglor could not quite place. Gently he ran its dripping length down the side of Maedhros’ neck, stroking away the clusters of sweat that dotted between the white ridges of scar tissue that patterned over his skin. A strange quirk passed over Celegorm’s features, and suddenly he exhaled one lingering, strained breath. “We are doing all that is possible to help him, but his _hröa_ is so weak, Káno. If the wound at his wrist becomes poisoned, if his blood becomes infected, if it becomes _necrotic_ , then…”

He looked over at Maglor, and his bright eyes were tinged with sorrow. 

“Then there is nothing more that we can do. The damage that has been done I fear may yet prove too much…”

Mutely Maglor looked away, anger and grief and bitter denial pulsing through him. It couldn’t happen, it couldn’t, _it wasn’t fair_ , to have come this far and still be in danger of losing him. And that injustice pounded through him, it drummed out its hatred with every aching beat of his heart. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be getting better; he was supposed to be _healing_ -

“Why didn’t you come and get me?”

In curt, clipped syllables Maglor’s voice rang dead through the air, and hurt cramped all the harder through his guts.  

“What good do you think it would have done?” Another voice cracked through the air, emanating from somewhere beyond the bed, and even through his hurt Maglor jumped at its sharpness. In surprise he stepped forward, at last laying eyes upon Curufin, who was firmly entrenched within the pile of cushions. 

His brother looked up at him tartly, a thin smile caught over his face. His sleek black hair was neatly braided, and in the light of the candle that burnt low at his side the metal cuffs that adorned the helices of his ears flashed sharply. Papers and notebooks lay flicked open about him like an academic halo, and upon his lap lay a half-drawn schematic, although of what its subject was Maglor could not quite discern. Stepping a little closer, Maglor’s eyes ran over the scribbled calculations that littered the sheaves of parchment, unbalanced chemical equations scored out in thick black ink and written out anew in his brother’s spidery handwriting. Charcoal and ink smudged up the side of Curufin’s left hand, and over countless more papers were scrawled rudimentary diagrams of indecipherable shapes, hurriedly crossed out and redrawn with notes and little questioning _tengwar_ scattered about their edges.   

With Curufin’s rather snarky remark forgotten in his curiosity, Maglor asked, “What are you working on?” 

“Calculations,” Curufin sighed, scowling down at the paper laid across him. “Turko thought that they might help. Something for his shoulder, to help realign it, perhaps. The experimental results showed some similarities in anatomy… even if…” 

He trailed off, furiously scribbling down another set of numerations and leaving Maglor to blink in confusion.

“How would what help? And what experiments? Curvo, what are you talking about?”

Curufin ignored him, urgently writing out some complicated-looking equation, but from the bedside Celegorm answered, “It might help with Nelyo’s arm. We have examined him more closely, and it is clear that this damage cannot be left unchecked. Even you, Káno, you can see that the orientation of his shoulder is entirely wrong.” 

Celegorm set aside the cloth, and as Maglor stepped over he began indicating the requisite parts of Nelyo’s shoulder as he talked. 

“Immortal we Eldar might be in _fëa_ , but we are not invulnerable in body. You see here, Káno, over the run of his right shoulder the muscles have deformed under the stresses of being suspended at such length. Malnourished he may have been, but even carrying a slighter weight, being in such an unnatural position for so long has left its repercussions.  

His pectoral muscle is bunched unnaturally high into the joint; you see this irregular knot of muscle here? It is dragging down upon his clavicle, his collarbone, and is pulling it out of alignment. Its run is unbroken but it is distorted. Ligaments should attach the tip of the collarbone to the acromion, the distal-most point of the scapula, but due to this distortion I can feel nothing but waste.” 

Celegorm’s fingers wandered softly over the skin of Maedhros’ shoulder and lingered in a strange hollow upon its point. 

“This indenture in the muscle here is also entirely alien. It is likely that in the initial moment of suspension his deltoid[*](http://www.sports-injury-info.com/image-files/ant-shoulder-muscles.jpg) tore in the sudden bearing of his weight.” 

“What do you mean?” Maglor asked, frowning more closely at where Celegorm indicated. “Why would a muscle _tear?_ Surely his suspension was relatively without... motion, from what Finno said, and the wounds over his back would seem to support such claims. Strain then I understand... but _tearing_?”

Celegorm winced slightly, before continuing, “It means that his initial placement there was less than gentle. Most probably he was dropped into the position, and either through the sheer stresses exerted upon the muscle, or some effect of awkward torsion, it ripped in that moment. And with it the joint dislocated, and has remained as such ever since.”

A slight wave of nausea brimmed in Maglor’s stomach, and resolutely he bit his lip, willing that sensation to fade.

“It appears that the deltoid has tried to heal itself, but due to his prolonged immobility it has healed incorrectly. The fibres of the muscle have re-knitted, but they are in poor condition and have twisted under his skin, hence creating this unnatural shape. The deeper muscles of the rotator cuff have been badly contorted as well, and from their crooked run I would say that the tissue of the labrum has torn entirely.”

“The labrum[*](http://whhs.com/static/adminuploads/shoulder.jpg)?” Maglor asked, suddenly wishing that he had paid more attention to the lectures on anatomy that some of the eminent scholars of Tirion had given in his youth, rather than doodling little images or new musical notations up the side of his parchment.   

“At the joint of the humerus with the shoulder-blade,” Celegorm explained patiently, “there is a fibrous ring of tissue which helps to secure and widen the joint. This is the labrum. It can be torn under acute trauma or repetitive stress, and I fear that this is what has happened here. The entire socket is undoubtedly misaligned, the labrum no longer supports it, and the tendons that run over the joint and help to hold it are also severely wasted.”

Maglor nodded gravely, understanding at least the idea of what his brother was saying, even if his knowledge of anatomy was not nearly so extensive.

“His trapezoid muscles[*](http://cnx.org/content/m46495/latest/1118_Muscles_that_Position_the_Pectoral_Girdle.jpg), those that extend from the spine to the shoulder, running over the neck and upper back, are also badly damaged. There are knots in the muscle that simply should not be; and this in turn is further distorting the socket and the joint as a whole. The rhomboid muscles also, the ones that link the scapula to the spine, are stretched nearly beyond recovery, but rather than exerting a pull they seem to have slackened, and this is also cause for concern. His biceps and triceps are strained, of that there is no doubt, but with some hope they will recover without issue. The arm itself is much less complex in comparison to the joint that secures it.”

Celegorm sighed, taking up the cloth once more and dipping it into the bowl, then running it gently over Maedhros’ shoulder.

“It is fortunate indeed,” he said softly, “that the trauma itself did not sever his spine. Dropped from the right height, and at the right angle… Perhaps it would have been kinder, in the end…”

Maglor’s lip twitched, and he bit back the stinging remark that bubbled up his throat. With difficulty he wrenched himself away, the weight and implications of that information settling within him like dark, grainy silt to the bottom of a lake. Yet for all Celegorm’s explanations one obtuse thing still perturbed him. 

“What experiments, Curvo?” he insisted, looking quizzically over to where his brother sat hunched over his drawings. “What did you mean by that?”

“It is nothing,” Curufin replied smoothly, not deigning to look up. “Forget I said it.”

Maglor squinted at him in suspicion for a moment, considering whether to press him further. After a moment’s tense consideration at last he laid it aside. If Curufin wished to keep his secrets then let him. If it was of importance here, then no matter their past squabbles he would volunteer the information for Maedhros’ sake, of that Maglor was certain.

“It is possible,” Celegorm continued from the bedside, “that we might be able to reunite the socket via reduction.”

“Reduction?” Maglor frowned.

“A technique whereby the bones of the upper arm might be realigned with those of the shoulder. In the simplest manner of speaking, we massage his shoulder, and hope to guide the bones back into a rudimentary alignment. With those integral parts united into normalcy once more, they will then provide the correct framework over which we must hope that his muscles and their supportive structures will heal properly.” 

“Does it work?”

“I have performed this before, in a cruder form, upon a hunting companion who was injured in a fall from his horse. It was successful, but…” Here Celegorm’s voice faltered, and gravely he looked at Maglor. “But in such an extreme case, I am unsure of the true success that will be found here. It is possible that his muscles are too damaged to support even that movement, or that the ruined ligaments of his shoulder will simply not allow its manipulation. It is no simple thing, to manoeuvre muscles worn like wire with such long abuse, and without Nelyo’s voluntary help it is made all the more perilous. I cannot know if damage has been done to his nerves. Long suspension may have dulled them, or the contortions of his shoulder trapped them, and without his being conscious I cannot truly be sure of what I am doing."

"However,” he continued, “despite these shortcomings I advise that we try. There is little more harm that can be done now, even if I were to be unsuccessful. But firmly I believe that it can be done, and with your consent I would proceed.”     

Maglor was silent for a while, and dismally he regarded Maedhros’ fever-racked form. Eventually, in a low voice, he brought himself to ask: “Will it hurt him?”

“Look at him, Káno,” Celegorm replied, not unkindly. “He is beyond the world of hurt, at least for the time being. It would be both prudent and merciful to act now. Curvo is drawing up the plans for a splint and a brace, so that we might immobilize the joint once we restore it, so all the better it may serve his recovery.”

Curufin arose from the cushions, regally dusting himself off before smoothing the parchment upon which he had been drawing open across the oak chest and allowing Maglor to look at it.   

“Here,” he began, pointing out the requisite sections of his neatly sketched design as he spoke, “once the joint has been realigned to the best of Turko’s ability, then I propose that we bind into place a thin metal rod across his collarbone, and another at a loose right angle down his upper arm. These will help his bones to bear their new orientation, and to provide a scaffold, if you like, for them to be splinted upon.

We fasten these into place, padded of course, with the most forgiving cloth that we can find. We must have care now not to bind them too tightly. Whilst they must be firmly held in place, we do not want to restrict his muscles unduly, and they must be allowed the flexibility to heal themselves anew around his shoulder. Then from these softer bindings about his upper arm and shoulder, we run straps about his chest to hold them in place.

In this way, you see, his shoulder and arm will be supported by the metal struts, but then themselves braced into and by his torso. In such a position, the joint will be well immobilised and allow healing to take place properly. It should not cause unnecessary discomfort, and of course, the construct is easily adjusted to whatever positions might later be required.

I propose then that we place his lower arm into a sling, to further immobilise the joint of his shoulder, and allow better the tender flesh near to his wrist to heal unmolested by accidental jostling. With such a structure in place we hope then that his musculature will recover into its proper positioning, and that in turn the ligature that supports it will heal. In time, therefore, I am hopeful that he will regain at least some use of his arm. But if nothing else, even if the joint cannot be saved then at least this will provide symmetry and relative balance to his body.”

Maglor frowned, nodding slowly as he tried to absorb all that Curufin was saying.

“It is quite likely,” Curufin continued, a little more hesitantly, “that he will require support at his shoulder for the rest of his life. After such severe trauma, I doubt that even one so strong as Nelyo could recover with utter impunity. But a simple brace to steady the joint: this is not so terrible a thing, in the long run. And we will always be here to help.”

More firmly now Maglor nodded, finding little objectionable about his brothers’ designs. Of what Maedhros’ future would hold it was pointless to speculate; it was the present that Maglor was determined to deal with. And despite the gravity of his brothers’ counsels a strange sense of relief flowed through him, some little thing trilled out its eagerness, its _happiness_ at having something before them that they could tangibly do to help. 

“How long will it take you to construct?” 

“Not long,” Celegorm answered confidently. “The brace itself is simple enough, is it not, Curvo? With your consent, Káno, I will send for the relevant supplies, and for Nyériel to assist me.” 

“Very well, then,” Maglor said. “If truly you believe this to be the best course of action, then do so without delay.”

“I will fetch everything then, and rouse Mistress Nyériel,” Curufin declared, leaving the parchment open upon the chest before quickly ducking out of the tent into the ominous darkness outside.

“Despair not, Káno,” Celegorm smiled, gently stroking the strands of hair back from Maedhros’ sweaty forehead. “I do believe that this can be done. And even if his shoulder cannot be aligned fully, then the increment will help him nonetheless. Already I have discussed it with Curvo: with the aid of a balm of arnica, lavender oil and _athelas_ , I hope to coax the muscles into manoeuvrability. If then they are sufficiently relaxed, I will then have some hope of fully reuniting the humerus and the scapula. And even if they are not, any improvement will be of aid. It is simple to modify this procedure into a gradual process, and even a self-perpetuating one, for as his muscles heal they will in turn become more pliant, and will of instinct seek the return to their natural arrangement.”  

“However,” Celegorm’s voice became solemn, ”the initial procedure is unlikely to be pleasant, and it can be unsettling to watch for those unsure of its practice. I would not wish to cause you further distress, Káno, so might I suggest that you depart us for a while?”

“Are you sure that you know what you are doing?”

“Yes,” Celegorm said faintly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I have to be.”

The sombre air passed him suddenly, and more brightly he looked up at Maglor once more. “Why don’t you seek out Moryo? He seemed rather put upon by yesterday’s trials, and you’ve always known what to say to him to improve his moods, ever since we were little. Even if you were the one to cause them in the first place! Fetch Huan along your way too, if you would. He must be wondering where I am, and unless he is kept occupied I’m sure he’ll be finding his way into mischief.” 

“Fine,” Maglor sighed, placing his bundle of bread and beef upon the chest. If he was not to need them, as it so seemed, it was best just leave them be. He turned to depart before hesitating slightly, the words slipping over his lips before he could quite prevent them.

“You look after him, all right?”

Celegorm waved him out, quickly stifling the flash of irritation that flickered through him at such a condescending remark.

“Of course, Káno. Have a little trust in us, for once. He is our brother too, and we will not let further harm come to him. As well you know.”

 

* * *

 

Upon the opposite shore of Mithrim’s great lake an altercation was brewing. The pinned flaps of Fingolfin’s war tent shivered nervously in the breeze, and over Fingon’s proud shoulders clouds as thick and black as tar writhed across the sky.

Silhouetted against that apocalyptic backdrop Fingon stood with a steady air, gazing resolutely at the heraldic device picked out in blue and silver thread upon a great banner above his father’s desk. Seated beneath its majestic spread Fingolfin beheld his eldest son, and his pale eyes glittered as brilliantly as the silver coronet set gleaming atop his head. A few scant metres separated them, but for all their physical proximity they might have been standing on opposing sides of a canyon, and an oppressive silence glowered in the chasm between them.  

At last the quiet was torn asunder as Fingolfin hissed, “What in Eru’s name did you think you were playing at?”

At the sheer venom in his father’s voice Fingon recoiled, but swiftly he gathered himself, drawing himself up to his full height with as much confidence as he could muster. His hands clasped tightly together behind his back, his fingernails dug pink little crescent-moons into the flesh of his palms, but as squarely as he could manage he replied, “I did what I judged to be right.”

“Right?” Fingolfin barked, his eyes flashing like chips of frosted steel. “You left without word. You disappeared into the wilds of Beleriand without apparent excuse or reason. You brazenly defied my orders for none to wander beyond the borders of this camp unpermitted, or to associate with those _traitors_. Pray tell me, how do you justify this to be ‘right’?”

“I had reason enough.”

“You abandoned your people at a time when they needed you the most!”

“There was one who needed me more.”

“ _Don’t_ get smart with me, Findekáno,” his father growled, his palm slamming down atop the desk with a ringing thud. As if in some vindictive support of his anger a roll of thunder boomed from overhead, and in its bold wake Fingolfin sneered, “Do not think me ignorant of the relationship that you and your cousin have shared, and do not presume for even _one second_ to throw that flimsy excuse before you as a shield.”  

“Do you really think me so petty, Father?” Fingon snapped in return, hurt pricking through him. Desperately he fought to keep his voice level, hysterics would not aid him here, and more calmly then he continued, “You think that I would risk what I did for… for nothing more than _that_?”

Fingolfin snorted in disgust, the edge of his lip curling as he leaned back in his chair, and for a moment Fingon looked away angrily. A short, humourless scoff of laughter scraped from his father’s throat and disdainfully he said, “You cannot even look me in the eye as you tell me that you love him.”

“And you do not love him?” Fingon countered, with some difficulty suppressing the urge to shriek. Dark thunder rumbled overhead, the sky seemed to revel in its malice, and all the tighter Fingon dug his nails into his palms as he fought for self-control. The blood-warm air seemed to throb with pressure in his ears. “Nelyo is your _nephew…”_  

“Do not speak that name in front of me. Rights to that language he and his traitorous family have forsaken. _Maedhros_ has –“

“How can you say that?” Fingon cried, anger and astound for a moment overwhelming him. “How can you be so cruel? He is your kin. He is your nephew!” 

“Nephew,” Fingolfin spat. “You have said it well. The tainted blood of his father runs foremost through his veins.”

Fingon shrank back in dismay, but before he could mount any sort of protest, bitterly Fingolfin continued: “Do not forget by whose hands it was that we were left to freeze upon the Helcaraxë. Do not forget whose blood condemned us to the misery of those ever-shifting ice floes, to the biting winds, to the trackless wastes of the North. Do not forget by whose action it was that sweet Elenwë was lost, and my granddaughter nearly beside her.” 

“That is unfair,” Fingon whispered, his resolve suddenly faltering under his father’s vehemence. For all the spite in his words, he could not deny the barbs of truth that were struck through them.

A crack of thunder split again through the sky, and in the death-throes of its reverberation Fingolfin spat, “Who dragged us into the massacre of the Swan-havens? Who left us stained in the blood of our kindred, left us stained even in the blood of our own? Whose hand sent your brother, my youngest son to the slaughter? Think upon that, think upon who wrought all of our miseries before you speak to me of Maedhros’ salvation.” 

Acid seemed to corrode through Fingon’s innards, and with a hideous wrench he grasped his argument once more, pulling it from the overwhelming tide of his father’s vitriol. And where bitterness led he responded with acrimony in kind. 

“Then knowingly you would leave him to suffer the same misery? After all that we endured, you would willingly inflict the same upon your own kindred? You would abandon him to torment in the hands of your sworn enemy without even _trying_ to rescue him?”

“His own brothers did so readily enough.”

“That is a matter apart, and long past,” Fingon insisted. “But you, you would have left him, for what? Some perverted sense of _justice?_ Of revenge? _”_

His father’s eyes flashed, thunder boomed overhead, and Fingolfin drew himself up imperiously, stalking around the desk to stand before his son. Fingon held his ground, his heels digging into the soft carpet beneath him even as every instinct screamed at him to back down.

“He left you for dead,” Fingolfin growled, glaring at Fingon with naked loathing in his eyes. “Maedhros burned those ships alongside his father. He chose the traitorous path that he walks. Why then should I show him clemency?”

“He did not burn them!” Fingon cried. “Macalaurë told you so. He stood aside –“

“And what did it matter in the end? What did such noble abstinence achieve? Nothing! Inaction is no excuse from guilt. The blood of my people drips from his fingertips as much as the rest of his brothers.”

Rancour swelled up in Fingon’s chest, and disgustedly he glared at the frayed edges of the carpet beneath him, his clenched fingers unlocking as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Hypocrisy ill becomes you, Father,” Fingon muttered. “If I were _inactive_ in attempting to rescue him, would that then have absolved me from responsibility?” 

A livid expression twisted over Fingolfin’s features, and he glowered down at his son. “ _He left you_. He turned his back on you, and left you to suffer just as much as he did the rest of my people. If you think that he cares for you then think more wisely. Why then would you risk your life for one who would so lightly throw yours aside?”

A resentful silence stretched between them; the sky seemed to hold its breath in dire anticipation. Sourly Fingon stared at the carpet, biting the inside of his lip to stop it from trembling. His father glared down at him, waiting impatiently for some sort of reply until finally Fingon murmured, “Because maybe I am better than that.” 

“What?” his father snapped, ill-disposed to decipher veiled implications.

Proudly Fingon lifted his head, and in meeting his father’s eye his conviction solidified within him.

“Maybe healing the feud between our families is more important to me than my own conceptions of nobility. If by any action of mine I could have brought about a reuniting of the Noldor then I would have done it, no matter what horrors or trials it demanded of me." 

Fingolfin stared down at him in bewilderment, yet the slightest glimmer of consideration seemed to temper his wrath. “Did you even realise what would have happened if you were caught? What the Enemy would do to you if you were captured?” 

“I did,” Fingon replied steadily, “and still I deemed my actions to be right. I have rescued my cousin from the tortures of the Moringotto, and I would do so again though the all the Valar themselves stand in my way. By his bloodline he is rightful king of our people, and he is my cousin, and he is my friend, and when he awakes I will aid him in whatever manner I might.” 

His father’s eyebrow arched, yet he held his silence.

“I am sorry, Father, that you deemed my actions improper. But for my actions themselves I make no apology.” 

“Defiant to the last, then?” Fingolfin muttered, affixing Fingon with a piercing glare. “Have you nothing more to say for yourself?”

“Only that I wish the breach between our families mended. And I hope that those with the power to do so will forgo their pride, and make good upon this opportunity.” 

At such an answer Fingolfin’s jaw clenched, and he exhaled heavily through his nostrils. But for that, his shoulders relaxed a fraction. Gravely Fingolfin looked upon his son, and his voice was stern. 

“You walk a precarious edge, Findekáno. I pray only that you do not topple.” 

With a wan smile Fingon replied, “Balance has always come innately to me.” Shallowly he bowed, and turned to depart his father’s company. “If you have further need of me,” he called over his shoulder, “you shall find me with my cousin.” 

Fingolfin did not deign to answer him, and merely stared contemplatively at his son’s retreating back as he strode from the tent, and into the waiting gloom of the clouds. 

 

* * *

 

Late that evening a short burst of trumpets heralded that arrival of the last of Fëanor’s sons. From the pile of cushions upon the floor of Maedhros’ tent Maglor raised his head. He blinked as his eyes refocused to the larger dimensions of the room, a bleary contrast to the tight, dense manuscript that he had been reading: a work of the renowned healer Nephamael and his comments upon the psyche under duress.

Rain pattered down against the tent’s canvas, the tempest some hours before had begun to blow itself out, leaving nothing but ash-coloured skies and chilly drizzles of rain in its wake. Maglor closed the manuscript and for a while sat still, in a motion that had become reflexive glancing over to where Maedhros lay.   

Celegorm, Curufin and Nyériel had retired some hours before, having done all they could to support his arm. With joy Celegorm had assured him that the reduction had been performed to remarkable success, and that he was certain of the joint’s realignment. The balm had served him well; swiftly Maedhros’ muscles had grown supple and allowed the careful movement of his shoulder until it came at last together. The padded brace they had then applied, securing the cushioned iron rods along the natural lines of his bones and binding them neatly in place. In turn a soft leather sleeve akin in style almost to pauldrons worn in battle was secured over the bindings, and from it straps ran over his chest and upper back, fastening it in place. Over the already complex gear a white cloth sling was arrayed, his lower arm cradled within it and tucked against the curve of his stomach.

Thus gently immobilised, Celegorm had said that they now just had to wait. The _hröa’s_ instinct for stability and harmony would take over and the healing process would gradually commence. But even through his glad words, a twinge of sadness seemed to pluck through Maglor’s stomach. Truly, he thought, more and more of his brother seemed to be disappearing _inside_ the wrap of bandages, rather than the opposite.

Sweat still dotted over Maedhros’ brow, the light fever sent a pinkish flush over his cheeks, but where Maglor had professed his concerns both Celegorm and Nyériel had gainsaid him. Fever was the body’s natural way of combating both injury and trauma, they had asserted, and unless it spiked they thought it best to simply let his _hröa_ mend itself as best as it could.

Under strict supervision he was to be kept, Celegorm had said. The wounds across his back had been newly dressed, soothing salves of aloe and powdered willow-bark were pressed into the torn skin and already there appeared to be a slight reduction of the inflammation there. His wrist was tenderly washed in an infusion of _athelas_ and neatly bound once more, and it was here that their chief concern now lay. A worrying heat throbbed from the blood-shot skin above the site of the trauma, Maedhros’ pale flesh was marbled still by a swarm of bruised capillaries and dark veins that stood in dull, purple cracks beneath his skin.   

Due to the freshness of the wound and the swiftness with which it was cauterised it was unlikely for the flesh to fester outright. However, Nyériel had warned, the persistent effects of anoxia might yet prove troublesome. 

Due to the manner and supposed length of his suspension, she explained, it was likely that the blood-flow to Maedhros’ wrist had been disrupted long ago. Gravity alone would have drained blood from the site, and his heart would have struggled to maintain the flow of fresh arterial supply against that irrefutable force. Then there was the matter of his entrapment itself; the iron band that clamped around his wrist would further have stemmed what flow remained. In combination therefore, it was not unlikely that the blood had near clotted within his veins, and the disruption of pressure may well have split apart the existing vasculature. In such an acute case, the corrupted blood may have been slowly leached from his arteries and bled into the surrounding tissues of his arm.

“Like a haemorrhage?” Maglor ventured, and gravely she had nodded.

“That may be the effects that we are seeing here,” she had replied. “This bruising along his lower arm is extensive, more so than even an amputation should evoke. Thus I theorise that it was present already; that as the vasculature of his lower arm withered the fluid bled into his muscles, and under the skin. This condition we call a haematoma[*](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hematoma), and often it presents as severe bruising, not from any great trauma but from the slow leak of damaged blood vessels.”

“The danger is,” Celegorm continued solemnly, “that if this haematoma has sat untended and unmoved within his arm for a length of time, such corrupt fluid might fester. I do not think that it has done so, but this fever is no positive sign to succour me in this belief. If the blood becomes poisoned, or if it has done so already, if it should spread throughout his already weakened body then it could yet prove fatal.”

“So what do we do?”

“There is nothing that we can do,” Nyériel sighed. “In all my years of practise I have never seen a case so extreme as this, and in its treatment we are stymied. We cannot drain the blood from him; in such a frail state most likely that would kill him. We simply must hope that morbid infection does not set in, and that he is strong enough to endure this hurdle. We tend to his superficial wounds with all care, we monitor this fever, and we wait for him to awaken. Until then, there is nothing more _to_ be done.” 

A short knock came at the tent post, and Maglor tore himself away from such macabre thoughts. True it was that Maedhros had not stirred, but for that he breathed easily, and he did not _look_ to be hovering quite upon the borders of death. Celegorm and Nyériel did not seem unduly alarmed by his prolonged unconsciousness either, and from their reassurance he took courage.

Clad in a cobalt riding jacket and cream breeches, Amras slipped tentatively between the canvas flaps of the tent’s entranceway. His hair was cropped to shoulder-length, and he flicked its wet, auburn strands behind him as he came to a wordless halt a short distance from the bed. Sadly he looked down upon Maedhros’ bandage-swaddled form, but though his hands were held demurely before him, a fierce tension clenched through his shoulders. 

Maglor extricated himself from the cushions and then crossed over to Amras, suddenly unsure of whether to reach out and hug him or not. Since the loss of his twin his youngest brother’s moods had been unpredictable, and might tip towards obtuse mirth or deep despondency with startling ease. Maglor settled at last for standing next to him in companionable closeness, and together they looked upon their eldest brother.

“How is he?” Amras asked in a strangely distant voice.

Swiftly Maglor recounted what Celegorm and Nyériel had said, and the events of the past couple of days. A glazed look came over Amras’ eyes as he spoke, and numbly his brother nodded at his words. A long silence passed after Maglor had finished, then tentatively Amras asked, “Might… might I have a moment alone with him? Please, Káno?”

Maglor sighed, eyeing with mounting concern the blank passivity that seemed to settle over Amras’ features, like some brittle façade of aloofness to mask whatever it was that truly he felt.

“ _Please_ ,” Amras said, his voice cracking on the syllable. He cleared his throat, before hoarsely continuing, “Please, I have some things I want to say, and I would prefer that they be said in private.”

Pity twisted through Maglor’s stomach, and sadly he smiled.

“Of course,” he murmured, reaching out to touch Amras’ arm in some sympathetic, brotherly gesture. But something about his brother's countenance stopped him; some terrible air seemed to leach through him, subtle yet poignant, and beneath its apparent serenity something violent roiled.

“Of course,” Maglor repeated more firmly, retracting his hand. “I shall be right outside if you need me.”

With uncharacteristic haste Maglor snatched up Nephamael’s manuscript and departed, and without a word Amras watched him go. 

And of what words Amras spoke to his brother that day no tale tells. Nor, perhaps, could any tale lift the weight of that sorrow.    


	5. Feverfew

“Five days.” 

As Caranthir’s stern voice rolled through the tent Celegorm looked wearily up at him. Caranthir stood at the foot of the bed, his hands sunk deep into the pockets of his quilted robes, the ermine-trimmed cape that he wore adding yet more bulk to his already imposing frame. He glowered over Maedhros and Celegorm, the latter bathing his brother’s still fever-addled body with a cool infusion of _athelas._

“It has been five days since we arrived. _Why_ has he not yet woken?”

Caranthir stalked towards the right side of the bed, but his menacing stride was suddenly interrupted as he nearly tripped over Curufin’s sprawled legs. For Curufin lay asleep upon the pile of cushions, a clutter of papers shrouded about his splayed form. Darkly Caranthir glared down at him, tutting in disapproval as he stepped with more care over Curufin's outthrust boots.

“Oh, leave him be,” Celegorm chided. “He has been working all night trying to determine the best way to extract and refine the salycin from willow-bark. It has a proven analgesic effect, and Nelyo will have need of it when he wakes.”

“And when will that be?” Caranthir growled, finally having navigated his brother’s legs to stand nearer to Celegorm upon the right-hand side of the bed.

Celegorm looked away, re-soaking the cloth within a shallow bowl of liquid and holding its dripping length to Maedhros’ brow.

“It is impossible to say, Moryo. Five days is still a short time, in the grander scheme of things.” 

He tried to smile reassuringly, but the movement faltered over his lips. For as the days crawled by, concern nipped at him all the more greatly. Maedhros remained inert to all stimulus, be it Fingon and Maglor’s pleasant lullabies or the changing of his dressings. He and Nyériel had applied more potent poultices of arnica, witch-hazel and lousewort blossoms to the broken skin of his back, but they dared not try any medicines stronger than what healing those gentle herbs could provide. Though for his unconsciousness he did seem to be healing, at least physically. The abrasions over his back had dwindled in their inflammation and begun to scab over cleanly, and the tender skin over the site of cauterization was slowly re-forming. But of what traumas lay deeper still, of the raw injuries of the _fëa_ none could say, and Celegorm did not want to speculate.

“He has not moved,” Caranthir rumbled. “He has not stirred even the slightest measure. How can you be sure that there is nothing else wrong with him besides the superficial? Could it be that some internal damage prevents his waking?”

“I cannot know that, not with certainty,” Celegorm admitted, flicking the sweep of his silvery hair back over his shoulders as he glanced concernedly down at Maedhros once more. “But the healers and I check him fully every time his bandages are changed, and should internal damage be present upon a physical scale then we should have seen it by now. A haemorrhage would pool beneath the skin, organ failures or ruptures produce clear discolorations of the whites of the eyes, or the flesh in some cases, and he is free from such symptoms. His vital signs are positive: he breathes with ease, and his pulse is regular, if a little rapid. The skin on his back has even begun to heal; the willow-bark and aloe have been aiding the processes and ensuring that the skin seals cleanly.”

Caranthir pursed his lips, his eyes flickering over Maedhros’ bandaged torso as he crossed his arms over his chest. Yet even as he looked a slight shiver ran through Maedhros’ body, and beads of sweat broke anew over his marred skin.

“He is still feverish, though.”

“Yes,” Celegorm sighed, wetting the cloth and moving to stroke it down what exposed skin of Maedhros’ right arm there was, careful not to jostle the brace and sling that held it firmly to him. “His body is still incredibly weak, and little wonder, given the state of Finno’s finding him. And I fear that the cauterization of his wrist may have proven more stressful for him than initially thought.”

“The fever, then, is it… ?” The question hung in the air between them as Caranthir frowned down at the bandages wrapped tightly around Maedhros’ maimed arm, and the dark bruises that still swelled upon the skin beneath them. 

“It is not caused by necrosis of the tissue, nor poisoning of the blood,” Celegorm replied, re-checking the knot that held the cloth of the sling secure. “If it were, we would have known by now. This fever would have spiked long before, and the tissues of his arm would have -”

A brief knock sounded at the tent-post and gladly Celegorm broke off, suddenly realizing that an explanation of the gruesome details of septicaemia might not be the best thing to impart under the circumstances. At Celegorm’s beckon Maglor strode in, a stack of scrolls tucked under his arm and a mug of tea balanced in his hand before him. Wordlessly the question was asked, and with a rueful shake of Celegorm’s head answered. Maglor sighed, setting the scrolls down atop the chest and moving over to stand beside Caranthir, carefully stepping over Curufin’s legs as he did so.    

For a brief moment a brooding silence fell, and in that uncomfortable void of sound Maglor sipped at his tea, feeling rather keenly that he had intruded upon some conversation not for his ears, or of some discomfiting topic. Whether rightly or no he stayed firmly put, and at length Caranthir began the discussion anew. 

“Should Nelyo not, perhaps, be fed?” Caranthir asked awkwardly, unsure of how quite to phrase his question. “Would some sustenance help him?”  

Celegorm looked sadly away, his eyes roaming over his brother’s wasted, scarred form. His gaze could not help but linger at the awful hollows that pocketed the base of his throat, all the puppy-fat scraped away from his neck and sternum to leave only stark tendons and papery skin.

“Little do I know of starvation, Moryo,” Celegorm said sorrowfully, “for who among our people have truly suffered it? I know only that the Eldar cannot succumb fully to its claws, as would a snared beast left cruelly to die, or a bleating lamb strayed far from its mother and lost. At times we may have accounted this imperviousness to famine a mercy, but now I am not so sure. 

I have talked to Nyériel and some of the other healers and loremasters among us, and they suggest that even when he wakes he will struggle to stomach even the slightest of foodstuffs. In times of dire need, they said, the _hröa_ is able to place a temporary halt upon digestive processes, to better re-route energy to the bodily parts where it is most needed.” 

Caranthir frowned in perplexity, as did Maglor beside him, and Celegorm tried to clarify his assertions. “It is not dissimilar to the effect felt after extreme exertion: hunger dissipates in its immediate wake due to the body’s concerns with muscle repair or respiration. Here, it is thought that we see a more protracted example of the same effect. His body has become… _accustomed_ to famine, and what scant energies he would have possessed would have been re-assimilated into drawing breath, or into repairing the slow damage to his muscles as best as his _hröa_ could manage. But due to such time of food deprivation, we think that even if we were to give him solids his withered digestive system would not be able to process them well at all.”   

“But could you not try?” Maglor asked, tucking the dark sweep of his unbound hair behind his ear as he bent forward slightly. “Surely even the slightest of nutrients from a mild broth would be better than nothing?” 

“While he remains unconscious such a thing is difficult.” Celegorm leaned forward, delicately sweeping the beads of sweat from Maedhros’ exposed left shoulder and arm. “The muscles in his throat will not necessarily aid in the action of swallowing, and even if they did, the risk of him choking is high.” 

“Could you not, you know, _force it?”_ Maglor winced, his informal vernacular at once seeming to him very juvenile, and very insensitive. He shook off the rill of unease that crept up his spine, and hurriedly continued, “I think I read something, in a scroll written by one of Estë’s followers…”

“You speak of intubation,” Celegorm said wearily, twisting back to face his brothers. “I have read Tavaran’s works as well. Only the subtlest of healers know how to perform this properly, and they numbered few among us even in Aman. Certainly I have no practical knowledge of this procedure, and I would not attempt it unskilled except at the utmost end of need. At the insertion of even the smoothest of bone-tubes down his throat, the risk of tearing the tissues of his trachea is all too high. Should something go wrong, should we accidentally glance off a blood vessel or pierce some delicate membrane of skin, the blood would trickle straight down into his lungs. He would drown in his own fluids, Káno, and we would be powerless to stop it.” 

Celegorm shook his head, and in his bright eyes sadness glimmered.

“I think the Enemy has been cruel enough. The complications from such an attempt would far outweigh the benefits, even if they could be gleaned.”

Maglor paled at such grim counsel, and beside him Caranthir emitted some tiny noise of dismay from deep within his throat.

“For now,” Celegorm continued, “we are trying only to keep him stable, in the hope that he will come back to us in his own time. His fever is still in check, although our supplies are beginning to run low…”

“What do you need?” Maglor asked sharply, a sudden worry stabbing through his guts.

“Feverfew, primarily. Some new roots of valerian, and witch-hazel blossoms for the abrasions on his back. And a greater store of fresh _athelas_ does not go astray either.”

“Go then,” Maglor said, a tone of command in his voice. “If they might be found nearby, seek them out. We will keep watch over Nelyo. As you said, there is little more that can be done while he remains unconscious.”

“Are you sure?” Celegorm blinked, his eyes flicking from Maglor’s pale face to Caranthir’s fell countenance, and the worryingly dark expression clouding over his features.

“Positive,” Maglor smiled. “Take Pityo with you as well, if you would. I have scarcely seen him since he arrived, and when at last he left Nelyo’s side he looked shaken indeed. Having a task to perform might do him the world of good, to take his mind off of things.” 

“Very well,” Celegorm said, standing and passing the ceramic bowl of infusion to Maglor, who took his place perched upon the right-hand edge of the bed. “We should be back before sunset.”

With one furtive glance over at Caranthir, Celegorm stepped carefully over Curufin and then made for the tent’s exit, ducking beneath the flaps with a flick of blond hair sprayed out behind him.

For a time silence reigned. Maglor took over Celegorm’s position; gently wiping the sweat from what remained exposed of Maedhros’ face and torso. As smoothly as he could he ran the dripping length across his left clavicle, but with each pass of the cloth he could feel it catch slightly on the ridges of scar tissue that clove through his brother’s skin, each tiny jerk and release of the soft material feeling like another needle stuck quivering into his heart. A faint breeze stirred through the tent from the entranceway left peeled back, and gently Maglor leaned forward, tucking the stray curls of Maedhros’ russet hair back behind his ears.  

He resumed his ablutions of his brother once more, and with increasing discomfort became aware of the deepening of Caranthir’s glower, the curl of disgust that played over his lips under eyes set like smouldering coals. Maglor tried his best to ignore that fierce gaze, but after a while the tension became unbearable, and balefully Caranthir glared down at him.

Finally Caranthir muttered something, and seizing upon even that dark refrain in the oppressive silence Maglor asked, “What did you say?” 

“How could we let this happen?” Caranthir muttered, more to himself than in actual answer. Maglor’s eyes narrowed, and cautiously he watched his younger brother, noticing with mounting dismay the flush that was mottling over his cheeks.

“ _How_ could we let this happen?” Caranthir repeated, and behind his voice a sudden vehemence burned. “How could we let this… this _atrocity_ take place?”

“Moryo,” Maglor began, a stern note of warning in his voice.

But Caranthir sliced right over it, and he snarled, “Káno, look at him! Look at what has been done here. This was not some wanton act of violence, or some injury dealt in the heat of combat. This was planned. This was calculated, this was ruthless, systematic _abuse_ and we just stood by and let it happen! We just left him there! We –“ 

“Do you think I do not know that?” Maglor hissed in return, his own temper flaring at the note of accusation in Caranthir’s voice. “Do you not think that -“ 

“Look at what has been done to him!” Caranthir bellowed, with such explosive impetus that Maglor jumped, nearly dropping the bowl in his hand. At Caranthir’s shout Curufin jerked awake from within the cushions. Unheeded by his brothers he blinked in momentary disorientation before swiftly composing himself, and coolly he scanned the scene unfolding before him.

“This is what our inactions have wrought!” Caranthir cried. “The Enemy wielded the knives, perhaps, or the brands, or the whips, but who gave them to Him? Our decisions, _your_ decisions have led to Nelyo’s ruin!”

“My decisions…?” Maglor spluttered, his eyes widening in mingled shock and affront.

Caranthir’s eyes darkened, and hatefully he spat, “ _You_ told us to leave him. You told us that he was most likely dead after that disastrous attempt at a treaty. We followed _you_ , we trusted _your_ guidance, and look what has been done because of it!”

Mutely Maglor looked up at his brother, his throat closing in horror. With every ounce of his willpower he tried to stave off that looming wave of guilt, but like floodwaters overwhelming the cracking dam it swamped through him, foaming in its puissance. Every shred of guilt, every wisp of blame and remorse that he had tried so hard to dispel seemed to bind together and become legion; Caranthir’s barb struck far too close to the mark, and bitterly those emotions flooded through him. And what tiny fragment of his mind that stammered that maybe this wasn’t all his fault, maybe it wasn’t him who did this was smashed aside in their clamour.   

“ _You_ refuted their terms,” Caranthir growled, stepping forward menacingly. “ _You_ left him in their hands, you left him to be their plaything while we walked free. You bought our freedom at the price of our brother’s life, and now _look at what they have done to him_!”

Maglor’s chin crinkled, with eyes full of pain he looked aside, and looming over him Caranthir drew breath to continue. 

“Carnistir! That’s enough!”

Curufin’s voice snapped like a whip through the air, and in surprise Caranthir recoiled, the breath whistling out of his lungs in one long exhalation.

Curufin rose gracefully to his feet, and his eyes glittered with obsidian fury as he glared at both of his brothers. He swept the sleek fall of hair from his eyes before stepping forward, and somehow that fluid movement carried a menace that nearly stopped the breath in Maglor’s lungs. His heart sank within his chest, blame wrapped its strangling hands around his throat and began to throttle him in earnest, and he could only desperately hope that he would be strong enough to survive their combined onslaught without quailing utterly.

But to his utmost astonishment Curufin turned sharply to stand at his side, one hand planting firmly upon his shoulder. With steely haughtiness Curufin faced Caranthir, and coldly he said, “Together we made that decision. Together we stood, and we made that choice, and together it was that we sealed Nelyo’s fate. The blame is not Káno’s alone.”

“Some made that decision more readily than others,” Caranthir snarled, his eyes flashing as he drew himself up to his full height. At the venom in his voice Maglor recoiled, but Curufin stood as still as carven marble by his side. 

“Careful what you imply, brother.” Curufin’s voice was smooth, but all the more perilous for it. “Do you think that any of us made such a decision lightly? I spoke beside Káno for a refusal of the terms offered, and to that resolution I hold, no matter what evil has befallen because of it. So do not for one instant seek to lay blame solely upon his head.”

Caranthir bridled, but before he could reply Curufin continued, his voice like oiled steel.

“What would you have had us do besides? Prostitute the freedom of our entire people on the tenuous chance that a thief might relinquish that which he stole? Liars beget _lies_ , Moryo. The Enemy would have sent Nelyo back to us in pieces, and all that we would have been promised would have turned to ashes in our hands." 

“But he is our _brother_!”

“Yes,” Curufin said, with no greater kindness. “He is. And like us he is bound by the Oath. To pursue whomsoever should withhold a Silmaril from us without remorse, and may the Everlasting Darkness drag us into oblivion should we fail. To those merciless words we have held, Moryo, and they bind Nelyo just as tightly. Do you truly think that it was the strength of his _fëa_ alone that has kept him alive through such bitter trials? Those words meant more than we could fathom, and ever they will command us, ever they will force our hands in matters where we should seek to do otherwise.”

“But –“

“So _do not_ try to pour your own guilt down Káno’s throat. Already he is rank with his own. You protested this choice, it is true, but in the end you were swayed to reason. What has come to pass here is an evil beyond measure, but it has passed. Reconcile yourself to it, if you can, or leave. Rancour and blame-sowing will not serve you here.” 

A thunderous look twisted over Caranthir’s face as once more he drew breath, but in icy warning Curufin raised his chin, almost daring his brother to take up the challenge. At Curufin’s side Maglor waited, staring incredulously up at his brothers, and the air between them seemed to shimmer with unspoken wrath. A moment more passed in brittle silence, until with a strangled choke of rage Caranthir turned aside, storming from the tent without further word or backwards glance, a scowl fixed over his face. 

In cowed silence Maglor sat, and finally Curufin withdrew his hand from his shoulder. He passed it then over his wearied face as he sighed, before stooping back over the pile of cushions to collect up his scattered papers. Wordlessly Maglor turned back to Maedhros, dipping the cloth once more into the bowl and wiping free the fresh drops of sweat that cluttered his brow.

At last Curufin readied himself, and turned back around. He eyed Maglor concernedly, watching the terse set of his lips, the slight tremble of his hand as he passed it over Maedhros’ forehead.

“Are you all right?” Curufin said quietly.

“I’m fine,” Maglor murmured, not meeting his eye. “Thanks, I suppose. I -“

Curufin snorted under his breath, shifting his hips in apparent discomfort, and confusedly Maglor looked at him.

“Don’t waste your breath,” Curufin said, almost sadly. “I was never very good at comforting words.” A slight frown passed over Maglor’s brow, and Curufin continued, “Confrontations, however, I seem to have a proclivity for.”

Silence thudded for one uncomfortable heartbeat, then a tiny scoff of humourless laughter emanated from Curufin’s throat. “Family trait, I guess.” 

With one last look at Maglor he stalked from the tent, and abruptly Maglor was left alone. 

 

* * *

 

Celegorm urged his dark-bay mount down the winding track that bordered the lake’s edge. The fallow sun shone through the thin scrape of the clouds above him, and its light glittered in pallid ripples across the waters to his left. Above the rhythmic thud of his own horse’s hooves he could hear Amras following some paces behind him, his brother’s dappled-grey stallion cantering rather more sedately behind his fiery gelding.

Huan loped alongside his horse, easily keeping apace with even a swift canter, his tongue lolling from between his agape jaws as he scented the air in excitement. Huan barked happily and quickened his stride, and beneath him Celegorm could sense his horse trying to give chase to the hound that ran so audaciously before it. He gave the horse its head, and together they pounded down the well-worn ribbon of track that bordered the lake with Amras following behind. After a valiant time at a gallop the horses began to tire, and sensing his victory Huan began to slow. In lofty acquiescence of his superiority he dropped the pace back to a more contained canter, yet his own head was still held proudly, and his paws flew tirelessly across the dirt. After a further half hour of travel the horses were beginning to foam, sweat lathered upon their flanks, and at last they turned aside from the track and into a small knot of woodland that lay to their north.

Spurring their tired horses onwards into a brisk trot, under the wood’s green eaves they ventured. A scrubby game-trail wound among the trunks of great oak and mahogany trees, and as quickly as they dared push the horses they followed it into the depths of the forest. After a time the thickening undergrowth slowed them to a walk; roots snaked across the path, and carefully they ducked beneath overhanging branches laden with apples and green chestnuts. Beside the trail greater varieties of flowers began to blossom, and amid the grass Celegorm began to spot the white, round heads of feverfew flowers, and scattered among the trunks of the trees a little further off, the purple constellations of valerian blossoms.

Deciding that they had come far enough, Celegorm called a halt. Swiftly they turned aside from the game-trail and dismounted, tethering the sweaty horses to a tree and leaving them to graze amongst the fresh grass at its roots. 

Celegorm led the way a little further into the woodlands, following the patterns of flowers upon the ground, and silently Amras followed his lead. About them Huan gambolled, forging through the undergrowth with his tail wagging as he sniffed excitedly at woodland smells both foreign and familiar. 

Rounding a sharp turn some metres on down the trail, a sizeable glade suddenly opened up before them within the thick compress of the trees. It stretched away in verdant expanse, sloping gently downwards towards the far line of beech trees some thirty metres distant. A gentle breeze rippled across the soft grass, and with its passing myriad pale flowers bobbed their heads. Celegorm smiled, confident that here they would find the necessary herbs in abundance, and quickly he turned back to Amras, who was lingering some metres behind him and gazing absently back down the trail. 

“Valerian root and  _athelas_ ,” Celegorm reminded his brother, who jumped slightly at Celegorm’s sudden speech. “And as much feverfew as you can carry. That’s what we need. We passed some witch-hazel trees on the way here, just beyond where the horses are tethered. Did you see them? We will collect those leaves upon our return.”

Wordlessly Amras nodded, his lips set tight, and without further notice or instruction he darted aside, stooping closely to the ground in search for flowers beneath the tree-trunks at the shaded edge of the glade.

Concern flashed through Celegorm for an instant, his youngest brother seemed more withdrawn than usual, and warily he watched Amras’ retreating back. But nothing seemed overly amiss: Amras bent suddenly at the base of an old oak tree before plucking up a white blossom of _athelas_ and tucked it into a pouch at his belt. Huan frolicked nearby, snapping his jaws in doggish enthusiasm at a bright butterfly that flitted past him before turning to sniff at something hidden amongst the grass at Amras’ side, his tail wagging contentedly.

Swiftly Celegorm roused himself: a task was at hand and standing there worrying about his siblings would not aid in its doing. For a time he wandered amid the glade, digging beneath the purple flourishes of valerian dotted amid the grass to expose their tuberous roots, and these he stored within a drawstring bag at his belt. At the far side of the clearing, beneath a cluster of tall rowan trees a bloom of feverfewswelled. Kneeling before the clutch of slender stems, he cut away as much as he could, storing both flowers and leaves within a bolt of clean cloth that he had drawn from a saddlebag. He squinted into the shade beyond, and spotting what appeared to be another cluster of feverfew flowers made to move towards them.

Suddenly Huan’s whine pierced through the pleasant woodland ambience.

In one fluid motion Celegorm wheeled about, his small knife turned and wielded outstretched in his hand in a move faster than mortal eyes could follow. With the sharpness borne of centuries of hunting experience he scanned the glade, searching for the source of alarm. To his mild confusion he saw no sign of an intruder, yet he spotted Huan jumping agitatedly beside the shadowed silhouette of his brother upon the opposite side of the clearing. A cold slick of dismay spilled through Celegorm’s stomach, and with all the fleetness he could muster he ran back towards where they stood. And even as he ran he watched in horror as Amras doubled over, leaning heavily against the trunk of a tall copper beech to steady himself. 

As Celegorm neared them Huan whined once more, his ears flicking backwards and forwards in doggish consternation as he peered up at his master. Flinging his knife aside, Celegorm approached his brother, even from a few metres away hearing the labour in Amras’ breath as the air hissed and caught with painful irregularity over his lips. 

More carefully now Celegorm advanced; for all the world Amras looked the part of some cornered, wounded animal, and Celegorm had experience enough to know to be cautious. He crept forward, his hand outstretched as if to coax Amras towards him, but he received no reply. Amras barely seemed to register his approach, but as he stepped within reach Amras’ hand tightened over the tree-trunk, his fingertips showing white under the pressure that his grip was exerting. A strange fragment of speech suddenly tumbled over Amras’ lips, the mangled words gasped a fraction too quickly for Celegorm to catch them. A tremor seemed to run through Amras’ shoulders, the bark flaked under his fingertips, and with a dreadful jolt of clarity Celegorm realised that he was crying. 

“Pityo,” he murmured, bending down a little to try and catch his brother’s gaze. “Pityo, hey, are you all right?” 

“I can’t do it, Turko…”

Amras’ speech was scarcely a whisper amid the susurrus of the breeze, and without warning his knees buckled beneath him. He fell back against the tree-trunk, his jacket slipping down the trunk with the crack of splintering bark as he slid to the ground. Celegorm lunged forward as he toppled, gently easing Amras down as best as he could into a more controlled stop upon the ground. They nestled at last between the outspread of two delving roots, with Huan peering concernedly down at them. Celegorm crouched before his brother, his hands wrapped securely around his upper arms, but even within that steadying grip Amras tipped forward, his head tilting miserably towards the floor. 

“I can’t do it…”

“Pityo,” Celegorm said soothingly, not daring to let go of his brother’s arms. “Pityo, what’s wrong? What’s the matter?”

A shudder racked through Amras’ torso, and fiercely he lifted his head, his eyes glittering. A moment later, a fresh wave of tears brimmed in them, and silver droplets ran afresh down the wet tracks carved over his cheeks. In helpless bewilderment Celegorm held him, and as if to a distressed child softly he crooned, “Hey, hey, shhh, it’s all right. It’s –“

“I can’t do it!” Amras shrieked, and in the wake of that explosive outburst his breath quickened into erratic little sobs. His shoulders shook in Celegorm’s grasp, and between each hiccupping sob shrilly he gasped, “I c-cant, not again…  _not again…”_  

“Shhh, shhh, Pityo, it’s all right, you’re –“ 

In one brutal lunge Amras shook free of Celegorm’s grasp, pouncing forward to grab hold of the lapels of Celegorm’s tunic. He yanked his brother forward, and for a moment true mania blazed in his eyes.

“We c-can’t lose another one! We c-can’t…”

And such awful understanding crashed down upon Celegorm. It drenched him in its chill. For a moment he remained motionless, staring horror-struck into Amras’ distraught eyes before his brother seemed to crumble, a slight keening noise emanating from the base of his throat.

“I c-can’t lose him…” Amras croaked, his voice breaking with a gut-wrenching squeak as hysteria clutched at him anew. His shoulders slumped, his fingers gripped all the tighter into Celegorm’s tunic as truly he began to sob, what scant coherence he had possessed dissolving utterly.

With all the force of a maelstrom amid the unfathomable sea, anger and protectiveness and a million other nameless emotions ripped up from Celegorm’s stomach, and he dove forward, scooping Amras into the tightest hug he dared. Firmly he clasped his youngest brother to his chest, remorse and such bitter _fury_ dredged up from somewhere deep inside of him, and hard he strove to quieten those biting emotions. For so long he had thought them bound, buried so deep down inside of him that their claws were dulled, squashed and stilled under responsibilities and smiles and such pathetic denial; and maybe for a moment he thought he could escape them, maybe he could forget, forget that unspeakable night where even the sky seemed to burn.

In some futile attempt to quell the trembling of his fingers he held Amras all the tighter, and as sobs shook through his brother’s slender body, with as much conviction and reassurance as he could summon he murmured, “We won’t. We won’t. We will not lose him.”

Amras moaned, and sensing the depth of his distress Huan whined once more, pattering agitatedly at their sides before butting his head mournfully into Amras’ ribs. In canine condolence Huan then wrapped himself as tightly as he could to their interlocked bodies, and for a while Celegorm just held his brother, whispering whatever words of comfort he could think of until gradually Amras calmed. That panicked hysteria seemed to slowly fade within him, and finally he shifted within Celegorm’s embrace, his fingers un-knitting from the crumpled lapels of his tunic. 

Gently Celegorm released him, and Amras sank back against the tree-trunk, his legs loosely drawn up to his chin, and his eyes distant. Celegorm peered at him in concern, and seizing upon the opportunity Huan wriggled his head into Amras’ lap, huffing protectively as he snuggled into the crook between his thighs and his stomach.

A moment passed in melancholy silence, and almost as if to convince himself of his own truth, Celegorm said, “We are _not_ going to lose him.”

Amras sniffed, and looked forlornly across at him, his eyes rimmed in red, swollen flesh.

“Come on,” Celegorm smiled, “you remember how stubborn he is, don’t you? As if he would even allow himself to be lost. Remember how hard he tried to steal that swan-egg for you to hatch when you were little, even though Father threatened him with a whipping if more of Uncle’s birds were found about the house? And you remember that time Moryo stole his favourite breeches, and he laced the insides of them with pepper-powder? I thought Moryo’s moaning would never end, and he had welts in all sorts of unimaginable places…”

Shakily Amras smiled in return, and sensing even that slight lift in his mood Huan woofed softly, and then panted in happiness as Amras began to scratch him behind the ears.

“He is not lost to us, Pityo, I promise,” Celegorm said earnestly. “He is but newly returned, and we must give him the proper time to recover.”

Slowly Amras nodded, but tears glossed once more over his eyes. He ducked his head, pressing his face into Huan’s tawny fur. 

“Come on,” Celegorm coaxed, rubbing Amras’ shoulders compassionately. “Come on, it’s all right. What truly is the matter now, hmm?” 

“N-nothing,” came the muffled reply, Amras’ face still pressed resolutely into the soft back of Huan’s neck.

“Pityo…”

“It’s stupid…”

“It is not stupid, Pityo. Please, please tell me what more is bothering you, and if it is within my power to amend then I shall do it, you have my word.”

“It’s just…” With a terrible poignancy Amras sighed, and bitterly he raised his flushed cheeks up from Huan’s neck. “It’s… it’s just every time I look at him…. They looked so alike, you - you know, and… and I looked at Nelyo l-lying there all broken and all I could taste were ashes. All I could hear was Telyo s-screaming…”

Amras broke off, a quaver passing over his lips as he looked miserably to the ground. A strangling sort of pressure seemed to tangle around Celegorm’s throat, but viciously he stamped it back down. Mustering his resolve, he took Amras gently by the chin, raising his head to look him firmly in the eye. 

“That will not be Nelyo’s fate,” he said gravely. “Such a thing will _never_ happen again. I will not allow it. No harm will come to any more of my brothers, not while I live to defend them. Do you believe me?”

With the tiniest of motions Amras nodded, and tenderly Celegorm released his chin.

“Now,” he said, inadvertently taking on the exact authoritative tone that his mother used to when dismissing them to bed as children. “If you are quite readied and able, we must continue our search for herbs. Every sprig and root that we collect is one step closer to Nelyo’s recovery, and witch-hazels do not pick themselves, you know.” 

“Okay,” Amras replied huskily, and grasping Celegorm’s proffered hand allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

Huan jumped at Amras’ heel as he arose, nuzzling against the back of his thigh in his merriment. With one final, heartening glance at his brother, Celegorm turned, tracking the short way back to the horses and the witch-hazels just beyond them. Amras stood still for a moment, blinking dully in the dappled light that filtered through the ruddy canopy above him. Huan nudged once more at his leg then panted up at him beseechingly, and with a wavering sigh Amras mastered himself. Wiping his cheeks free of the tears that stained them, he followed after Celegorm, with Huan padding watchfully behind him.   

Some distance beyond the grazing horses Celegorm stood beneath a cluster of tall witch-hazels, plucking leaves from the branches within easy reach and depositing them within an additional pouch of cloth drawn newly from a saddlebag. Without word, Amras joined him, and Huan flopped down into the grass a few metres short of them. In companionable silence they picked the freshest of the yellow leaves, until quietly Amras whispered, “I’m sorry.” 

He fiddled with the straps of his belt, not looking over at Celegorm as he awaited the undoubtedly admonishing reply. But to his profound surprise Celegorm merely sighed, before gently replying, “For what?”

Celegorm reached up to grab a few more leaves, dropping them into the cloth before stooping to fasten it shut, the cloth bulging with plant-matter. 

“There is nothing to forgive, Pityo,” he said, a rueful smile curving over his face. But quickly that melancholy passed, as more brightly he urged, “Now, make haste! The day passes, and most likely Káno will lecture me into the coming year if we are not back by sunset!”


	6. Camphor

_A huge thanks to everyone who's read this far, and we come at last to the moment I think we've all been waiting for._

_But please, please take note: this chapter contains **graphic and distressing** **imagery** , so if you are sensitive to such things then do read on with caution. _

_This chapter will probably be the worst of it, and although updates might be a bit slower after this (and punctuated by at least one unrelated, significantly less angsty interlude) , they are still coming, so hang on in there._

_Yours most sincerely._

* * *

 

In two days the fever broke.

At last the infusions of _athelas_ that Celegorm so diligently bathed his brother with seemed to take true effect, and gradually the fever was dredged away, leaving no hint of its flush upon Maedhros’ pale cheeks. The wounds over his back began to heal all the quicker, aided by the soothing balms of witch-hazel and aloe, and the anti-inflammatory effects of crushed feverfew blossoms, the torn, half-scabbed skin began to improve visibly with each changing of his dressings. The severance at his wrist appeared to be healing as well as it might; the bruising was beginning to lighten, the dark veins of his forearm were a little less pronounced, but still they shone dully through skin that was tinged the sickly yellow of fading trauma. At Amras’ suggestion, the strips of cloth that bound his wrist were first soaked in a solution of boiled willow-bark for some small measure of pain relief and antiseptic protection, and within a day or so the swelling began to markedly reduce.  

But while his physical recovery quickened, Maedhros still showed no further signs of returning to consciousness. The days dragged by, and forced by either the necessity of duty or distraction from such relentless concern, the brothers began to disperse back to their occupations. Yet at all times one or more of them sat with Maedhros in what moments of solitude or rest they could snatch from the demanding claws of princedom. Celegorm and Nyériel chatted whilst pressing flowers of arnica and lavender oil into compresses for his shoulder, or while peeling the tuberous valerian roots so that their purified essences might then be extracted.

Huan often accompanied them, nuzzling forlornly at Maedhros’ motionless fingertips, in doggish confusion wondering why his master’s brother never to moved to acknowledge him as he used to. His fingers never scratched behind his ears anymore; they lay cold and still, yet he could still smell the life that flowed within them. In puzzlement Huan would settle himself at the bedside, watching as his master and Nyériel ground up strange, pungent spices in their hands and smeared them tenderly over Maedhros’ flayed back.    

Caranthir, having dwelt long upon Curufin’s words, apologized most gallantly to him and to Maglor, and readily they accepted his contrition. It was a trying time for everyone, tempers were likely to flare, and only ill would come from holding petty grudges around words spoken in rash, despairing mood. Caranthir then took to spending long hours at Maedhros’ bedside, embroidering countless bolts of cloth in wondrous patterns, or gilding the noble trappings of court in thread of palest gold and silver as he watched his eldest brother sleep.   

Curufin withdrew himself to the furthest outskirts of the camp, along its northern-most borders where a series of caverns delved through an overhanging cliff in the mountainous land. He claimed a need for space and air within which to properly experiment upon the extraction and refinement of salycin away from the press of people, and if any of his brothers suspected him of more illicit activities within those maze-like catacombs then they did not confront him about it. Whatever he was truly doing in those caves, they told themselves, it would be for the betterment of Maedhros and their people, and if Curufin would not freely tell of his activities then perhaps it was better not to pry.

Very frequently Curufin would visit back to the healers, asking queries of them as to what details they knew of the willow-bark’s effects upon the physiology, or consulting with Celegorm upon the fit of the brace upon Maedhros’ shoulder. For now they deemed it sufficient, and already they could feel a slight unknotting of his pectoral muscle, the fibrous bunching at the juncture of his shoulder coming looser with the relief of pressure upon it. But until Maedhros returned to consciousness it would be impossible to determine its true effectiveness or its lasting impacts.  

Amras flitted to and fro on various errands, keeping himself largely aloof of proceedings. An innate sort of understanding of his behaviour seemed to flow through all of his brothers, and upon his unwillingness to linger in the camp for long they spoke no comment or backwards word; and for long years Celegorm kept secret what had transpired in the woods. But every few days Amras would reappear out of the wilderness with some exotic flower in his hand; golden blossoms of celandine were set to bob in a vase upon the chest of drawers, or dainty bulbs of crimson _seregon_ , or bright _alfirin,_ and their pleasant fragrances brought a much needed lightness to the inside of those sterile canvas walls.

Ever and anon Fingon would be present, playing a sweet melody upon his harp, or reading aloud some story or poem, ever hoping that the sound of his voice might coax his cousin back into consciousness. That just once more might his cousin answer him, he prayed; he begged with gods who did not hear him, who did not seem to care, if only from the silence there might spring his voice crying in something reply,  _anything_ , and that would be enough.

It would be enough to quench the loneliness that burned in Fingon’s heart.

Maglor did not grudge Fingon his intimacy, and if any of the others objected then tactfully they held their silence. Often Maglor would join his cousin, when the duties of lordship would release him from their grip, and he would sing a pretty tune atop Fingon’s mellow harp-notes, or in easy companionship delve into reading of his own: works of theoretical philosophies and speculations upon the psyche written by the loremasters in the blissful years before the Darkening. 

One such afternoon, birds chirped merrily over the fluttering banners strung atop the camp’s expanse of tents. Maglor sat at the bedside, humming absently to himself as he flicked over a rather strange scroll detailing the migratory patterns of swallows. Fingon sat ensconced within the cushions upon the far side of the bed, frowning over the drawing that he was inking across a spare scrap of parchment. Of its subject Maglor could not quite discern, but as he glanced over he noticed to his amusement that the harder Fingon concentrated upon his drawing, the more his tongue would poke out from between his front teeth; a curiously juvenile mannerism in one so widely revered as a fearsome warrior. With a faint snort of laughter Maglor turned back to his scroll, and as he did so the slightest whimper seemed to slide through the air.

The breath stopped in Maglor’s lungs, and he leaned forward, staring at Maedhros intently. Fingon recognized the motion immediately, and looked up from his drawing with his eyes wide. But Maedhros seemed no different; still he lay motionless against the pillows, the only sign of life about him the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he drew breath.

Through the congealed silence they waited, and desperately Maglor prayed that he had not simply imagined that noise, through the sheer force of his hopefulness convinced himself of its reality. But a moment later it came again; although Maedhros did not move, a ragged little whimper flickered most definitely from his throat. 

“Nelyo?” Maglor murmured, his voice painfully tight as he leaned forward all the more. At his speech Fingon instantly arose, crossing quickly to sit level with Maedhros’ waist upon the edge of the bed’s right side.

“Nelyo?” Fingon said in turn, and at his voice a faint spasm passed over Maedhros’ face. Almost imperceptibly his lips parted, sticking a little with some trace of saliva, but at that reaction, for most definitely that was a _reaction_ , Maglor’s heart leapt within his chest. Relief and joy flooded with reckless abandon through him, and with difficulty he stifled the desperate impulse to lunge forward and scoop into Maedhros into the most crushing hug he could; and as Fingon’s hands curled into trembling fists around the skirts of his tunic he could tell that his cousin was doing the same. Then, for but the slightest of moments Maedhros’ eyes fluttered open, before falling lightly closed once more.

“Nelyo?” Maglor urged, swallowing down the tremor that threatened to break within his voice. With a little more strength Maedhros’ eyes opened once more, those hazel irises at once so familiar and so alien, and unfocusedly they flitted over the sloped canvas ceiling. A ragged whimper bled from his throat, and softly Maglor crooned, “Hey. Hey, Nelyo, it’s us… it’s Káno and Finno…” 

Fingon slowly extended his hand, and with the slightest of pressures rested it reassuringly upon the blankets under which Maedhros’ bony thigh reposed. But as his hand came down a frantic sort of choke tumbled from Maedhros’ lips, something so horribly akin to the squeak of some terrified, trapped animal. Maedhros’ eyes scrunched shut, voluntarily it seemed, and with a look of abject horror Fingon snatched his hand away. And in such dawning realization he watched as, in the absence of that touch, his cousin’s breathing steadied once more, and his eyes blinked warily back open.

Fingon looked over to Maglor, dire concern breaking through him as quietly he began, “Káno, he’s –“

But whatever Fingon was about to say was abruptly cut off as an incoherent mumble fell from Maedhros’ lips. Both cousins leaned forward, hoping that he might repeat more clearly that little fragment of speech, but he fell back into silence, and his eyes drifted shut once more. But where that motion might have been tranquil, Maglor watched in horror as the tendons in his neck drew taut, the muscles of his shoulders seemed to lock, tightening like cords under his scarred skin. 

“Nelyo,” Maglor prompted, a sudden fear coming over him at such a worrisome sign. “Nelyo, what was that? Can you repeat that for us?”

 “…  _hurts…_ it h-hurts…”

Maedhros’ voice was scarcely audible, the syllables half trapped in his throat, but both Maglor and Fingon’s eyes widened in alarm. Instantaneously Fingon stood, quickly commanding, “Keep him calm. I’ll get Nyériel,” before sprinting from the tent.

A flickering little whine emerged from Maedhros’ throat, and half to still the dreadful spirals of emotion that cramped and knotted within himself, Maglor reached out to his brother’s limp hand beside him. But as his fingertips slid over Maedhros’ knuckles, an awful hiccup of panic clutched at his brother’s throat, and violently his hand twitched. Dismay rocked through Maglor’s stomach, and he retracted his hand as if that touch had scalded him. Fingon’s severed speech from those moments before bloomed suddenly within his mind, and what it dared to imply chilled him to the bone.

Tightly he reined in the despair that hovered within him, and he leaned forward once more. Maedhros’ breath seemed to unlock; but that grim seizure transmuted into broken little inhalations that betrayed nothing but distress.

“Nelyo,” Maglor said, every ounce of reassurance and calm and compassion that he could muster pushed into his tone. “Nelyo, it’s all right, you’re safe. You’re safe now. It’s just me. It’s Káno.” 

“…  _hurts…”_

Horror wound around Maglor’s throat and began to squeeze, and Maedhros’ faint voice tailed off into a quavering moan of pain. Maglor’s hands clenched into impotent fists around the blankets, and desperately he tried to stop the wobble in his own voice as he murmured, “I know. I know it hurts, Nelyo, but you have to be brave for just a minute longer, okay? Finno’s coming back, and he’s going to make it stop hurting, all right? All right?” 

Fitfully Maedhros stirred, his shoulders twitching in some pitiful effort to dislodge whatever pain it was that he was feeling. And it felt like someone had flicked burning cinders along the insides of Maglor’s ribs as so helplessly he watched his brother writhe, those jerky little movements all that his exhausted body could muster. 

“Nelyo, lay still, all right?” Maglor plead, with every ounce of self-control he had resisting the urge to scream. “It’s only for a moment longer, I promise. Finno’s coming back, he’s –“   

To Maglor’s colossal relief, Fingon at that moment dived back into the tent. Nyériel and an assistant scurried in behind him, their arms laden with two huge baskets of medical paraphernalia. With a professional’s calm Nyériel looked over Maedhros, and at the feeble rack of muscles beneath his skin, at the pained whimper that began anew in the hollow of his throat, decisively she said: “Milk of the poppy, now.”

Her assistant scrambled to ready the vial and dropper, drawing the milky fluid up into the slender pipette. Nyériel brought it carefully over to Maedhros, and delicately she leant over him. But at her proximity Maedhros moaned once more, a series of frantic little whimpers ripped out of his throat as she bent closer to him, and weakly he tried to wriggle away.

“Shhh, Nelyo,” Maglor whispered. “She’s going to help you. It’s all going to stop, I promise, it’s all going to go away but you have to let her, you have to…”

As gently as she could, Nyériel grasped Maedhros’ jaw, and he froze so terribly under her touch that Maglor felt sick at the very sight of it. Carefully she pried his lips apart, and neatly dropped the potent liquid down his throat. With one awful wrench he shuddered, but a moment later the sedative began to take effect; its numbing tendrils spread throughout his frail body and he relaxed, his eyes fluttering shut as pain was washed away into merciful oblivion.    

For a moment silence reigned, and everyone regarded Maedhros’ limp form. 

“He woke up…” Maglor whispered, the rather redundant statement slipping over his lips before he could stop it.

“Indeed he did,” Nyériel sighed, moving back over to her pile of supplies and beginning to sort through them. “And now the test of our skills truly begins." 

“W-what do you mean?”

“That milk of the poppy might blunt the pain for an hour or so, but beyond that I cannot risk giving him more. His _hröa_ is so weak that such strong analgesics cannot be regularly administered, for fear of causing much graver complications.”

Nyériel looked grimly over to Maglor and Fingon, but in her glance remorse glimmered also.

“He is going to be in pain, my lords. But we must determine from where this pain stems most keenly; his wrist, his shoulder, his back, or some other place that we do not know of, and for that he must be at least semi-conscious. He is going to need you to help him, to help keep him calm as we look him over. It is likely that this short period of time will be… distressing for him. We cannot know what tortures he has endured, and it is likely that even after such a period of isolation that the sensation of foreign touch will be something to be hated and feared, even from the most dear of kindred.”

With a start Maglor recalled Maedhros’ reaction to even the slightest brush of his hand, and all the tighter did grief twist in his stomach. 

“But this assessment must be carried out, and perhaps it will be kindest if he has kin about him. Your presence he might recognize, and take some comfort from, although even this I cannot promise.”

“I will help,” Maglor affirmed immediately. “Just tell me what I must do.”

“Me also,” Fingon said gravely.

Nyériel nodded, before continuing: “He must also be hydrated, and soon. We cannot risk him going into hypovolemic shock from lack of fluids.” She turned to her assistant and rattled off some instructions. “Find Turkafinwë, if he has returned yet from his hunt, for he is knowledgeable in these matters and has proved helpful. Also, set someone to make a broth. Now that our patient is at least semi-autonomous, the risk of him asphyxiating is much reduced, and the nutrition will help. Clear chicken broth, spiced mildly with lemon and gingerroot.”

“Right away, mistress,” the assistant replied, before hurrying from the tent. 

An hour passed in terse preparation, tinctures and balms of myriad kinds were set out at the ready upon the chest top. A small pot of clear broth was procured and set to simmer beside the clutter upon a portable brace of tea-candles. Celegorm arrived midway through their preparations, his cheeks still flushed with exertion from his latest supply trip despite a hurried wash in the lake’s chilly waters. With cool professionalism he assisted Nyériel in her preparations, leaving Maglor and Fingon to hover anxiously nearby, unsure of quite what to do with themselves.

The sun was dipping behind the westernmost mountains when Maedhros trembled back into consciousness. Lucidity came no more strongly than the last time, and unfocusedly his eyes rolled over the ceiling as he blinked. A soft moan of pain reverberated from his throat as with the lightest of touches Nyériel felt for the pulse at his neck, and even at her slender fingers he flinched away.   

For a while he lay relatively still, and Maglor and Fingon did what they could to distract him as Celegorm and Nyériel consulted upon his vital signs. As if at the cradle-side of a newborn they murmured what cooing words of comfort they could think of, and Maglor hummed a sweet childhood tune that used to echo about the nurseries of Tirion’s noble houses. But as the minutes drew on Maedhros grew more restless, and with such hideous clarity Maglor could see pain beginning to flicker through him in earnest. His shoulders began to shift with increasing frequency against the pillows, and the muscles of his arms trembled as he tried to shake loose whatever discomfort it was that troubled him. Ignoring the tremor in his voice Maglor continued his tune, hoping against all hope that somehow it might help, that it might be familiar and comforting, until at last Celegorm stepped over and called for quiet.  

“Nelyo?” Celegorm murmured, leaning over Maedhros with enough distance as to not be overly upsetting, but catching his wavering hazel eyes firmly within his gaze. “Nelyo, I need you to focus for a moment. I need you to try really hard for me, all right? I need to know where it hurts the most, and I need you to tell me that. Do you think that you can do that for me?”

Inarticulately Maedhros moaned, his head tipped back amid the pillows, and his breath shortened into pained little gasps as sensation came that much sharper, and dragged with it only agony. 

“Nelyo,” Celegorm crooned, sensing his brother’s grip on reality beginning to slip. “Nelyo, it’s okay. You’re okay. Come on now, just focus for me a tiny bit longer. Now I know that you don’t want me to, but I’m going to place my hand on you. I’m going to run my hand down your arm, and where it hurts the most I want you to show me, okay?”

A strangled choke flitted over Maedhros’ lips, and fear blossomed in his eyes. Another jolt racked through his torso, and to Maglor it seemed all too much that he tried to recoil, tried to push himself away from Celegorm.

“I’m sorry, Nelyo, but it’s important, all right? I have to do this, and it’s going to help you. It will all be over in an instant, I promise, but I need you to focus. Just for a little bit longer, yes?”

Grim resolve came over Celegorm then, and biting down the horror that welled up within himself he laid two fingers across the base of Maedhros’ throat, between the cleft of the two tendons at his sternum. And with such dismay Maglor watched as every muscle in his brother’s torso seemed to lock rigid; all too much it looked like he was bracing himself, steeling against some hurt or injury about to be inflicted. 

And with a gut-wrenching lurch Maglor realised that this was _exactly_ what he was doing: responding to the expectation of pain like a whipped dog cringes before its master. That primal instinct to shield himself clove through even the physical limitations of his body, as wasted muscles and destroyed tendons tried so futilely to protect him, to curl himself up; and from what years of abuse such a reaction stemmed Maglor simply could not bear to consider.

“Shhh, Nelyo,” Celegorm murmured, “it’s just me, it’s your brother. It’s Turko. I’m not going to hurt you… I’m not…”

The half-truth faltered on Celegorm’s lips, but he shook its sting aside as his fingers traced swiftly over the bandages that held Maedhros’ right collarbone. Intently Celegorm watched for any sign of reaction, but Maedhros did not stir from his clenched rigor even as Celegorm lightly probed the brace strapped over his shoulder. The suspicion grew stronger in Celegorm’s mind then, and with more confidence he ran his fingers over Maedhros’ bicep, darting aside the sling that cradled his lower arm, to no significant reaction. At the crook of his brother’s elbow Celegorm paused, and with much greater delicacy he began to inch his fingers down the exposed flesh of Maedhros’ forearm, barely skating the marbled, bruised flesh that lay there. He came to a few inches short of the dressings, and suddenly Maedhros grunted. That guttural noise tapered off into a strangled squeal of pain, and hastily Celegorm withdrew his fingers. That was all the confirmation that he needed. 

“Oil of camphor,” Celegorm requested, and wordlessly Nyériel handed a vial of the viscous liquid to him.

“There, Nelyo,” Celegorm crooned, “it’s done now, it’s over. I’m going to put this on, and it’s going to stop hurting, all right?”

A frightened squeak of pain and misery wormed from Maedhros’ throat, and taking that appalling noise as all the permission he was ever likely to receive, Celegorm quickly coated the traumatised skin of his forearm in the numbing oil. Its cloying scent filled the air, and liberally he dripped it over the bandages bound about Maedhros’ wrist until the cloth was soaked entirely. After a few short moments Celegorm felt his own fingertips begin to deaden, and very soon Maedhros relaxed; the tension in his shoulders dissipated and his eyes closed in relief as the anaesthetic took its effect.   

Maedhros slept in peace for an hour or so, and in that time word was sent to the others of his siblings. At Maglor’s bidding they kept their distance, and he asked them to visit only upon the morrow, as Maedhros’ condition was so evidently fragile. Celegorm and Nyériel, contented that for the time being there was little more to be done, retired; and Maglor and Fingon were left to watch over him. Strict instructions had been left to them that should he awaken, then in the manner causing the least possible distress they should try to get him to eat even a fraction of the broth, if they could.  

After a time, Maedhros awoke once more. Maglor was seated in the chair upon the left of the bed having taken up his scroll, and sensing even that mild proximity Maedhros immediately tensed, shrinking back into the pillows. Anxiously Maglor peered across at him, setting his scroll aside, and despite the fear that shone in his brother’s eyes he could see that already they seemed clearer, and more firmly they held his gaze. 

“Hey,” Maglor smiled, hovering upon the edge of his seat as he leaned forward as far as he dared. “Hey, Nelyo, it’s me. It’s Káno.” 

“And Finno!” Fingon’s voice floated upwards from the pile of cushions, and slowly he arose to stand by the foot of the bed at Maedhros’ right. “Don’t forget about me.”

Maedhros’ eyebrows quirked as if in search of some long-buried memory, and as if encouraging a forgetful child Maglor prompted, “You remember us, don’t you? Káno and Finno. Finno and Káno…”

“The dynamic duo!” Fingon smiled softly, and at their combined words a flicker of recognition stirred behind Maedhros’ eyes. Tentatively he began to relax, and the tension slowly unwound from his shoulders.

“There you go,” Maglor breathed. “You’re safe. You’re safe here with us.”

“Nelyo?” Fingon asked gently. “Can you do something for us? It’s okay if you don’t want to, but it would help us a lot. It would help us to help you. Do you think that you could try?” 

In scared apprehension Maedhros looked over at Fingon, but a few seconds later almost imperceptibly he nodded, his chin tipped downwards by the tiniest fraction. 

“That’s brilliant, Nelyo,” Fingon beamed. “Now, I need you to tell me, does it hurt anywhere? Your arm, your back, or your wrist? Is anything hurting?”

A look of childlike concentration bled into Maedhros’ eyes. His brows furrowed slightly, and a long silence hovered about him, but at last he gurgled: “… n-no…”

Fingon exhaled one slow breath of relief, and looking pointedly at Maglor silently bade him continue. He himself then turned, crossing over to the pot of broth and beginning to ladle a small amount into a bowl left beside it.

“That’s really good to hear, Nelyo,” Maglor murmured encouragingly. “Now listen to me. We want to do everything that we possibly can to help you, and to make you as comfortable as we can. And what we think is that you need to eat something; just the tiniest bit of soup to help warm you up, and to help hydrate you. Now, do you think that would be all right?”

A long silence passed once more, and Maedhros looked away as he thought over Maglor’s words. At last, a frown flickered over his face, and uncertainly he croaked, “… yes…”

His eyes drifted shut, and as gently as he could Maglor tried to coax him back into wakefulness.

“That’s great, Nelyo, that’s really great, but for us to do it we’re going to have to hold you –“ 

At that, Maedhros’ eyes snapped back open, and a tight gasp of panic seemed to clot in his throat.

“Shh, Nelyo, it’s all right,” Maglor said soothingly, desperately fighting down the instinct to reach over and stroke his hand. “We’re not going to hurt you, I promise. We’re going to help; we’re going to make you feel better. And I know that it’s not fair, and I know that you don’t want us to touch you, but we’ve got to, you see? We have to hold you up so that nothing bad can happen.”  

The frightened glimmer in Maedhros’ eyes slowly seemed to dull as Maglor’s words sunk in, and he subsided into a timid quiet, the breath still hissing uneasily over his lips. During the slight reprieve, Fingon moved around to Maglor’s side of the bed, leaving the bowl of soup and a length of cloth within easy reach upon the chest-top. 

“Now,” Maglor explained patiently, “what we’re going to do is slowly get you upright. Finno is going to hold you just as gently as he can, and I’m going to help get some soup into you, all right? We’re going to take this as slowly as possible, but if it’s too fast, or if you want us to stop then you just say so, and we’ll stop, yes?” 

Maedhros did not reply, and delicately then Fingon perched upon the edge of the bed. He reached over, and steeling himself for a reaction of abhorrence he let his fingers ghost over his cousin’s left shoulder. At that slight touch Maedhros shuddered, but he remained silent, with a passivity that bordered on sickening. But Fingon ploughed through such emotions; this _had_ to be done, and slowly he slipped his right arm behind his cousin’s shoulders, negotiating his movements with care so as not to jostle the brace or bandages strapped about him.

Eventually Fingon found his grip; his fingers curled between the thick pads that rested over the right of Maedhros’ ribcage and the soft pass of the sling. Maedhros did not protest, and slowly Fingon tensed his arm, levering Maedhros’ torso up off the pillows by an inch or so as he slid his hips closer in to the centre of the bed. At that unnatural motion Maedhros whimpered, and through the quiver of his shoulders Fingon could feel just how hard he was trying to remain relaxed.  

“There,” Fingon whispered, “that’s perfect, Nelyo. Now I’m going to lift you just a little bit more, and then you’re going to lean back onto me, all right?” 

“… all right…”

“Now, as we move, if it hurts anywhere then you must tell me. And if you don’t want to go any further then we’ll stop.”

Maedhros swallowed hard, but throatily he whispered back “… all right, I’ll t-try…”

“That’s all I could ever ask,” Fingon smiled, a swell of pride bursting in his chest. For so poignantly he could sense the effort of will, and the effort of _trust_ that it took Maedhros to permit even that simple thing. 

Gently he began to lift Maedhros upwards, but although his cousin flinched, he remained pliant. With appalling ease Fingon moved his light frame to lean against him, as he himself wriggled further forwards in support. After a brief moment of adjustment that elicited a frightened wince from Maedhros, they settled. Maedhros lay stiffly back against Fingon’s chest, the blankets left pooling about his waist, and his head was propped securely against Fingon’s collarbone. And so desperately Fingon tried to banish the memories that flickered through him; all of those times under the golden light of Laurelin where they had sat just like this, where Maedhros had lain so easily against him, had laughed so happily in his arms; and what ugly contrast did those memories bear to their brittle contact now. 

“There,” Fingon said, choking back those puissant emotions as they scourged their way up his throat. “That’s perfect right there. Is that all right for you, Nelyo?”

Maedhros made no reply, and through the bare skin of his shoulders Fingon could feel his heartbeat throbbing like a drum. However, in the absence of an outwardly nervous reaction, Fingon nodded to Maglor. 

Contented then that his brother was reasonably comfortable and Fingon readied, Maglor draped the cloth over his knee and took up the bowl and spoon. Under Fingon’s watchful gaze he half filled the spoon, and cradling his hand beneath it so that it could not spill, he lifted it to Maedhros. Fingon’s left hand came about, cupping Maedhros’ cheek to stop his head from lolling as Maglor touched the spoon to his lips. Maedhros flinched as the warm metal touched his skin, but instinct swiftly overcame that revulsion, and waveringly his lips parted. Tilting the spoon, Maglor neatly trickled the broth into his mouth, and a few seconds later sighed in relief as Maedhros swallowed.

“There,” Maglor smiled down at his brother, and Fingon grinned over at him. “There, doesn’t that feel better?”

Slowly they continued, Fingon patiently supporting Maedhros’ head as Maglor spooned each tiny mouthful of broth past his lips. To their profound delight Maedhros increasingly relaxed into Fingon’s arms, the tension in his back tentatively unknotting as he sank further back against his cousin, and more keenly he began to accept each sip of broth. Very nearly they had emptied the bowl, a fond smile was breaking over Fingon’s lips as he looked down at the familiar smatter of freckles over Maedhros’ cheeks, when without warning Maedhros jerked within Fingon’s grip, and an instant later he gagged. 

The wasted muscles of his abdomen squirmed beneath his skin, the scars that lanced over his stomach were set into hideous undulations as his eyes rolled back into his head, and beyond voluntary control he retched once more. A thin, foamy line of bile and broth bubbled up over his lips and Maglor darted forwards, instantly discarding the bowl and spoon. He snatched up the cloth, kneeling upon the bed before his brother’s slumped form, and softly he wiped the drool from his chin and cheek as it began to drip.

Fingon stared down in helpless dismay, holding Maedhros as still as he possibly could as he shuddered so feebly against him. Each new convulsion heralded a desperate, wet cough; as even that mild broth proved too much for his ravaged body to process, and each weak clench and shiver of his muscles felt like it might cleave Fingon’s chest in two. With such excruciating kindness Maglor tended him, wiping clean his cheek and lips as each gulping retch brought up nothing but frothy liquid, but despite his best efforts a few stray droplets trickled through Fingon’s fingers as he held Maedhros’ head steady. 

After what seemed like a lifetime Maedhros’ gags subsided into quavering, erratic breaths, and with such uncomprehending misery he moaned as Maglor wiped the last flecks of liquid from his lips. His eyes flickered shut, and he fell utterly limp against Fingon; his body sagging but for the occasional shiver that flitted through him. He whined once more, an awful noise of distress and exhaustion at the utmost end of sanity seeping from his throat and after several horrifying seconds it cut off into a strangled half-sob, his body too weak to even muster the strength for tears. 

“It’s all right, Nelyo,” Maglor murmured, a terrible note of pleading in his voice. “It’s okay. You did so well. You did so, _so_ well.”

As non-invasively as he could, Maglor checked that his brother’s airways were clear; even through the muddle of his own shock that one life-saving piece of information pierced with clarity. But as his fingers softly parted Maedhros’ lips his brother did not stir, and it was only the faint whisper of his breath against his hand that assured him that he was still alive. 

And he wasn’t even sure if Maedhros could hear him anymore, but somehow speaking aloud seemed to allay the horror that threatened to overwhelm him, and as evenly as he could manage he said, “Finno’s going to lay you back down now, Nelyo, and we’re going to check that you’re all right.”

Fingon did as suggested; carefully manoeuvring Maedhros back onto the pillows and slipping himself free. About his head he stacked the pillows neatly, ensuring that he was tilted at such an angle that should he vomit again then his airways would remain unobstructed. With trembling hands Fingon draped the blanket over him once more, before turning to sit in heavy silence upon the bedside. 

In turn Maglor leaned forward, and with a quavering, ruined smile he breathed, “There you go. It’s okay now, it’s okay…” He tucked the mussed strands of Maedhros’ hair back behind his ears, smoothing his rumpled copper curls back down as a mother would do to a sickly child. “There, sleep for now. Even that tiny amount that stayed down will help, and in the morning it will feel better, I promise…” 

His voice wobbled, the lie curdled on his lips and fell away into the dead silence that descended. Fingon sat as one struck dumb, staring blankly into the middle distance with his sticky hands clasped together between his knees. But even the savage tightness of that grip could not still the shake of his fingers.

With a heartsick sigh Maglor gathered up the cloth and bowl, setting them down with a heavy clunk atop the chest of drawers. In a reflex that he could no longer control, his eyes flickered back over to Maedhros, and grief scythed through him anew. And for the millionth aching time he tried not to imagine what unspeakable things they had done to him, in the blackness of those dungeons what violations had been so cruelly inflicted; how many screams, how many moans and yelps and howls of anguish and humiliation that had been torn from those pale lips. Maglor’s vision blurred, in the wake of such horrid thoughts he felt futile tears prick behind his eyes, and with a grimace he fought them back down.

Abruptly he turned to face his cousin, and he croaked, “I will stay with him.”

His voice caught anew as he saw the hopeless expression that had settled over Fingon’s face, and sorrow clenched harder in his stomach. “You should rest, Finno.”

His cousin did not respond, and with the last shreds of patience he had left he snapped, “Finno, you need to rest.” 

Numbly Fingon nodded, the dark sweep of his braids obscuring his face as he turned away from Maglor. Without word he arose, striding quickly to the tent’s exit and ducking through it; and the canvas flaps shivered in the wake of his passing. And even over the crossing of that short distance, Maglor was sure that he saw his cousin’s shoulders begin to shake.

Viciously Maglor bit back the fresh swell of tears that rose behind his eyes. What use were they? What good would such pathetic emotion achieve? He grabbed a book from the pile left nearby, and as those choked tears dissipated he could feel their tingling flush mottle over his cheeks. He sank into the chair, and flipped the book open to a random page upon his lap. Blearily he scanned the words before him, hoping that within their ebb and flow he could find some distraction from the emotions that warred within him; guilt and horror and icy shock that stabbed their ways through his lungs, that cramped through his innards. 

Little did his efforts avail him, and in the ailing light he arose once more, setting alight to the candles that were set about the tent. In their mournful glow he sat back down again, any attempt at reading forsaken. In such bitter melancholy he set himself to watch over his brother, and there he remained, until one by one the candles burned themselves out and the shadows of night drew in.  


	7. Chamomile

CHAMOMILE

The days crawled by like blunted knives. Each one seemed to drag through the skin. 

Mostly Maedhros slept. His _fëa_ flitted like a wraith across the borders of waking and repose whilst his _hröa_ remained pitifully weak. Under the ever-watchful eyes of his brothers, and of Fingon, he was well tended: one or more of them would be seated firmly at his side by night and day. If he slept then quietly they would read, or draw, or just sit in thoughtful silence. Curufin often would continue his calculations for new metal alloys from which weapons might be smelted; Celegorm would flick through endless stacks of scrolls of herb-lore and healing filled with ancient wisdom brought forth from Aman, while at his feet Huan would lie staring mournfully up at his master and his brother who lay in deathly stillness upon the bed.

Yet for their torpor those hours of restfulness were somehow the better. Maedhros would flicker randomly back into waking, and should his eyes remain open for long enough then softly his kin would speak to him, they would try to coax him back into himself. Long were their efforts, and miserable their results. For beyond the slightest of nods or the tiny quirk of his lips Maedhros would not reply to their questions, he would not venture any conversation of his own. He would just stare at them with such piteous confusion in his eyes, with such a crushing _lack_ of recognition that sometimes it became all too much, and Caranthir or Amras would send for Maglor or Fingon and beg their leave to depart for a while.

Even in Maglor’s lilting songs or Fingon’s gentle murmurs little comfort seemed to be imparted. More often than not Maedhros would just look at them with such blank, uncomprehending fright that, in some despairing hour of the night, truly his sanity was called into question. But calmly Nyériel assuaged their doubts: they must give him time, she said, and above all they must be patient. Within her stoic assurances they found the will to continue, though the way was hard.   

For even at the slightest of touches Maedhros would cringe, he would flinch away in the most grievous of manners at the lightest of pressures placed upon his skin. Sore then were the trials of tending to his wounds, and the brunt of them fell upon Maglor and Celegorm, who endured them without complaint. Twice daily his dressings were changed, twice daily they inflicted what must only have seemed to be some new torture to one so damaged. Safety forced their hands; at Nyériel’s solemn counsel Celegorm dared not sedate his brother with analgesic poppy-milk, and willow-bark and _athelas_ could only do so much to alleviate the discomfort that he so reluctantly induced.    

At their approach Maedhros would shrink back, he would try to curl away beneath the blankets and the most heart-rending whimpers of distress would bleed from his throat in the crushing anticipation of pain. Over and over again Maglor begged him, he _begged_ with Maedhros not to be afraid, he pleaded for him to understand; they weren’t going to harm him, they were going to help. But Maedhros’ eyes just filled with hurt and such innocent, wrenching incomprehension, and at the tears that brimmed in them as Celegorm approached with a pot of aloe in his hand Maglor looked away.  

As gently as they could they would lift him, with every fibre of his being Maglor fought down the horror that swelled in him at the noises Maedhros would make as Celegorm rocked him forwards into his arms. Only through the steel of his will could Maglor bear that revulsion, that rigid sense of responsibility held him firm and as tenderly as he could he held Maedhros to him, exerting only the barest of pressures to keep him still as Celegorm worked over his back. Maedhros’ head he cradled into his collarbone, and with as much care as he could he avoided trapping the brace and sling of his brother’s right arm between the close press of their bodies. With his right hand pressed to the left side of Maedhros’ ribcage he helped to support him, and to keep clear enough room for his maimed arm to rest comfortably between them.

The positioning was awkward, and in Maglor’s embrace Maedhros struggled; the wasted muscles of his abdomen squirmed as he tried weakly to push himself free. But with appalling ease Maglor held him still, and in what pathetic measure of comfort he could muster he stroked down the sweaty strands of his brother’s hair, he held him through each mewling cry of pain as Celegorm peeled back the dressings and began to bathe the abrasions over his spine. But it seemed that Maglor could bring no consolation. Maedhros’ skin burned with abhorrence against him, at every wince or flinch that Celegorm’s hands inadvertently elicited Maedhros would brace himself afresh, waiting for some cruel rebuke. No matter how many times Maglor told him that it was all right, no matter what words of calm flowed over his lips Maedhros just didn’t seem to _understand_ , and that sorrow was perhaps the hardest to bear.   

But it had to be done; no matter how much distress it caused to either party Maedhros’ wounds could not be allowed to fester, and the resolve of that purpose bound them grimly to their actions. 

Long and aching were Maglor’s words to Fingon, as Nyériel had charged them with the task of persuading Maedhros to eat. Of what remnants of the broth Maedhros had managed to keep down, the nutrients had visibly begun to aid him, and already his pulse beat more firmly within his veins. At length Fingon overcame his reluctance, and following the same patterns as that first time, each day come sunset they would ease Maedhros upright, Fingon delicately supporting him whilst Maglor spooned a thin broth past his lips. 

Some days Maedhros would accept them with little more than a shudder but on others he would recoil; he would struggle and flinch and blanch from their gentle requests, from their patient voices, and only at the utmost end of exhaustion would he then condemn himself to be handled. Softly then Fingon would hold him, and Maglor would press the spoon to his lips, but even then it felt like a violation: like Maedhros was nothing more than an animal made compliant through brute force, until the will and ability to resist had been utterly beaten from it. Dark were those nights, and down to the bone Maglor felt polluted, as if all the waters of the world would never have the power to wash him clean again. 

But as the days rolled on, more and more Maedhros began to show interest in what he was being fed. Though he might flinch away from a sudden contact, or balk at a moment of inelegant adjustment against Fingon, more readily he began to accept each mouthful of broth, and waveringly he would smile back at Maglor as he spoke to him. Soon enough, more actively he would begin to seek out each new mouthful, and the muscles of his neck would flex faintly under Fingon’s steadying hands in a tentative attempt to support himself. From such signs Maglor and Fingon took heart. Eagerly they relayed them to the healers and kin alike, and all found comfort in those positive indicators of improvement. And as if even the barest of supplements had set into life a great blaze of restoration within him all the swifter did the wounds over Maedhros’ back knit together, the gauntness of his cheeks began to soften, and the hollow indentures of his ribs muted in their severity.    

In parallel to his physical recovery, for longer and longer periods of time Maedhros would awaken with an increasing measure of lucidity in his eyes. Celegorm and Nyériel were hesitant to overly administer strong analgesics, but aided by both the tinctures of _athelas_  and Curufin’s newly refined extracts of salycin laced in careful dosage into his evening broth, Maedhros seemed relatively free of pain that he would show or tell. For the most part he was silent, but gradually that light of terror dimmed in his eyes, to be replaced by only a wary caution as someone new walked into the tent or sat down beside him.  

Still he could not abide to be touched, but more and more he became accepting of foreign presences around him. Frequently Fingon would read to him, from the chair beside his bed he would crack open a tome of the lays of the Quendi and the Ainur, and spend countless hours reciting the old stories and poems of their people. From high literature to cradle-tales Fingon leapt, and with exuberance he would thrust himself into the stories; each knight would have a voice of nobility, each lady a voice fair and strong. The great realms of Arda he swept, from the realms of the sea-wyrms in the depths of Vaiya to the glimmering peak of Oiolossë, and through the pull of his voice so fervently he hoped to draw his cousin with him into those stories. If just for one instant he could bring Maedhros with him into a fantasy, pull him into some dream of light and merriment where suffering could be forgotten, where pain could be washed away, even if it was only for one fleeting second then that would be good enough.

He was never quite sure if he succeeded, but after a time as his voice flowed through the tent then Maedhros would begin to relax, his eyes would flutter shut as he listened. And sometimes even a slight smile would curve over his pale lips as Fingon recounted some endearing description or some lordly jest. At his cousin’s ease Fingon’s heart would soar, and with renewed enthusiasm he would weave tales of his own devising, of far-distant lands and fantastical peoples to be befriended in all the corners of the world. Or he would tell of simple things more close to home; a tale of Amras’ encounter with a she-bear and her cubs in the woods to the south, or some funny thing that a stable-hand had told him as he visited bold Rochallor in the fields that day. He would speak until truly Maedhros slept, whereupon he would lie himself down on the cushions and keep watch until one of his cousins came to relieve him of his vigil.

Day by day Maedhros’ physical wellness accelerated, more upright he began to rest amid the pillows as the abrasions across his back reduced, and with greater interest he would begin to observe what went on around him. Still he spoke very little, only wisps and fragments of hoarse words flitted over his lips in response to a direct question; but even at that improvement his kin rejoiced, and they did not press him greatly. The tending of his wounds still proved a trial for Maedhros still could not bear foreign hands laid upon him, and it was all Maglor could do to keep him remotely calm as Celegorm re-dressed his back, now covering the scabbed flesh in only the mildest salve of aloe and crushed birch-bark, and binding it in light, padded gauze. At Curufin’s bidding the brace across his shoulder remained untouched. More time would be required for results to be tangible, he had said, and to his advice his brothers trusted.

As Celegorm untied the sling about his arm and unbound the dressings at his wrist, softly Maglor would cradle Maedhros’ head into his shoulder, turning his gaze away as a mother would shield her child from some terrible atrocity unfolded before them. At each probing brush of Celegorm’s fingers Maedhros whimpered, he buried his face all the more into Maglor’s tunic as his head bowed, as the bruised flesh of his forearm was laved in an infusion of _athelas_.

Daring his own glance downwards, Maglor’s throat closed at the sight of the severance. Although much alleviated, yellow and sickly green bruising still mottled up his brother’s forearm, and over the site itself the bones of his ulna and radius were starkly visible under a thin, shiny skein of flesh. But Celegorm did not seem concerned, indeed he seemed _pleased_ , for no matter how unsettling the vision Maedhros’ wrist was healing cleanly, and all indicators of infection had for now faded.

Celegorm finished his ablutions, and Maglor held Maedhros all the more firmly to him. He whispered what soothing words he could think of as softly Maedhros began to cry, but whether his tears were in the mere response to pain or of some deeper understanding of his loss Maglor could not tell, and he did not have the cruelty in him to ask. 

In other ways though Maedhros improved swiftly, and with joy Celegorm at last saw him accept a cup of chamomile tea when it was offered. Tentatively he reached out to the proffered cup, and as his bony fingers glanced off of Celegorm’s he shuddered, but at last he grasped the wooden cup unaided within his left hand. For a while he just held it, frowning down at it with some unreadable expression clouded over his face, until at Celegorm’s encouragement shakily he lifted it to his lips. A sip of the tea he took, and fondly Celegorm smiled down at him, quelling the tide of emotion that burst within his chest at the look of mild bewilderment that crossed Maedhros’ face, an expression that finally transmuted into a look of shy achievement.

Little things then he was able to do, and indeed seemed interested in doing. As Fingon helped to hold him upright, Maedhros would cradle the bowl of soup between his palm and his lap, and from there Maglor would spoon the broth into his mouth. In wary gratitude he would accept a warm mug of tea if it was offered to him, or a cup of fresh milk, and with increasing confidence he held them in his left hand and unbidden raised them to his lips.   

One such afternoon the rain drizzled down from skies as grey as ash, and Caranthir sat at Maedhros’ bedside. Over Caranthir’s crossed legs was draped a length of cloth, and upon its black expanse he embroidered their family’s sigil onto it; a shimmering eight-pointed star picked out in purest silver thread running like liquid steel down each outspread ray. Silently Maedhros watched him as he worked, in tranquil curiosity he gazed at the dart and pluck of Caranthir’s clever fingers. An emptied cup of tea was loosely held in his hand, half nestled into the folds of the blankets at his waist. Upon the hazy borders between dreaming and waking for a while he wandered; and from the constant, silent companionship of Caranthir somehow he took reassurance in spite of his ever-imposing bulk and his proximity.

A long while passed in harmony, and when Maedhros fluttered back into wakefulness once more he found Caranthir looking kindly at him.

“Are you done with that, Nelyo?” he asked, nodding to the cup still curled in Maedhros’ fingers. “I could get you some more, if you would like it?”

For a lengthy moment Maedhros seemed to ponder the question, until faintly he replied, “No… no, I do not want any more." 

“All right, then,” Caranthir said pleasantly. “Just you let me know if you would like any more later, and I shall set a pot to steep afresh. Might I take that cup from you, then? I do not wish it to be a nuisance if you would like to rest.”

“Y-yes…”

With exaggerated care Caranthir leaned forward, and as he did so Maedhros stiffly moved his left arm outwards, his fingers trembling slightly around the cup as he held it out to his brother. But as he stretched slightly further a sudden tremor spasmed up his arm, the wiry muscles of his bicep knotted visibly beneath his skin in an awkward clench, and before Caranthir was quite readied to catch it, the cup slipped from Maedhros’ fingers. It dropped to the floor with a barely audible thud, the thin wood bounced harmlessly against the carpet, but in its wake an anguished moan bled through the tent.

Caranthir eyed his brother warily, and carefully he leaned forward to retrieve the cup from the floor. But even at that languid motion Maedhros flinched away from him like he had been slapped.

“S-sorry…” Maedhros stammered, and as Caranthir leaned aside to place the cup upon the chest-top he could hear his brother’s breathing begin to quicken, and dreadful premonition began to well up in his stomach.

“It’s quite all right, Nelyo,” Caranthir replied jovially, but the casual tone of his voice dropped away as he turned back fully, and truly he beheld the terror that was breaking in Maedhros’ eyes.

“S-sorry,” Maedhros spluttered, either unhearing or uncomprehending of Caranthir’s reassurance, and his breathing quickened into erratic little gasps as blind panic shone in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I d-didn’t…” 

“Nelyo,” Caranthir crooned, inwardly cursing the scrape of his voice. His dark tenor was not the most un-intimidating of tones. “Nelyo, hey, it’s all right, it’s –“

“No!” Maedhros cried, and violently he pulled away, his body wriggling in what feeble motion he could away from where Caranthir sat. Little did that effort avail him, he moved perhaps an inch or two, and to Caranthir’s dismay he could hear the distress in Maedhros’ voice as the realization of that helplessness set in, and his outcry sank horrifically into begging. 

“No… p-please, please, don’t… I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ …”

The plaintive words tumbled over his lips, they fell at Caranthir’s feet and they died there. Even at the slightest shift of Caranthir’s shoulders Maedhros cringed, and such hideous tears of fright welled up in his eyes. Unseeing he looked up at his brother, and desperately the words came bubbling up his throat, “Please, please, I didn’t mean it… I didn’t… I’m s-sorry…” 

Caranthir’s throat seemed to close; bright, bitter wrath ignited in the pit of his stomach, but savagely he stifled that flame, and as comfortingly as he possibly could he murmured, “Shh, Nelyo, it’s all right. You’re all right. It’s just me, it’s Moryo, remember? I’m not going to hurt you, now, come on…” 

But even as he spoke Maedhros curled away, in such fearful misery he pressed himself back into the pillows, his left arm half raised as if to ward off an oncoming blow.

“No! No, p-please…” he gasped, before he broke into a hiccupping series of syllables that Caranthir did not recognize. Though he could not decipher the guttural sobs and mangled noises that fell from his brother’s lips, far too clearly Caranthir could understand the tone. For those were the noises of a trapped animal, the anguished whines of a beast that cowered in the inevitability of pain and against all hope begged for a reprieve.   

Sorrow lanced through Caranthir’s heart, anger churned anew in his stomach, but as placidly as he could he leaned forward once more: at this point, little difference would it make. A squeak of fright wormed out of Maedhros’ throat, all the tighter did his eyes squeeze shut, and in stark clarity Caranthir could see the hopeless tears that trickled down his cheeks.

“Nelyo,” he plead, and desperately he fought to keep his voice level. “Hush now, Nelyo. It’s just me. It’s Moryo. It’s your brother…”

“No! No… d-don’t…”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Nelyo, I promise. Nobody is going to hurt you anymore.”

Caranthir’s words throbbed through the tent, and after what seemed like hours, Maedhros at last opened his eyes. Warily he squinted up at Caranthir, and in his eyes forlorn confusion shone.

“You remember me, don’t you, Nelyo? It’s Moryo. It’s your little brother…” 

Maedhros’ eyes seemed to shiver, horror and bewilderment and just the slightest flash of recognition bleached through them, and coaxingly Caranthir continued, “Do you remember, when we were little, you used to read to me? We would sit under Mother’s _mallorn_ tree in the courtyard, and you would sit all very straight and proper and I was supposed to listen to the story. And I would try to sit quietly, to sit nicely like you, but then as you were reading I would get up, and I would sneak around behind you and start braiding your hair. You had such lovely hair, Nelyo, and as you were reading you would let me braid it, do you remember?

The light would dapple down through the leaves, and you would be telling me one of Sicillë’s sagas, or the great lay of Volundor, and I would braid your hair just how Mother had shown me that week, in a pretty fishtail, or a great elegant waterfall sweeping down your back. And when I was done you would smile up at me, Nelyo, you would smile up at me and you would make me feel proud.”

As Caranthir spoke, slowly Maedhros calmed. The muscles over his shoulders and arms relaxed, and guardedly then did his left arm come to rest at his side. In tentative recognition he looked over at Caranthir, his eyebrows furrowed into an expression of childlike remembrance, as memories so long buried under years of blank agony began to stir.

“That was you, Nelyo,” Caranthir smiled, seizing upon the look of realisation that was dawning over Maedhros’ face. “That was you. You were my big brother, my very biggest brother, and you were always so kind to me, you were always patient. You made me feel safe.”

“… I – I did?” Maedhros stammered; the words shaking over his lips as uncertainty glimmered in his eyes. 

“Yes,” Caranthir rumbled, his throat knitting painfully tight. “Yes, you did. You always looked after me, and you were always on my side if Káno or Turko were teasing me. You… you always made sure that I was all right, in the end.” 

“… really?” 

“Really.”

At the timid note of belief that crested in Maedhros’ voice, Caranthir shifted his seat a fraction, but even that slight movement caused his brother to jump. Dismay rolled through him, but in its wake a sudden idea leapt into his mind: something that, even if it would not work, then at least it would cause little harm in its trial. Resolutely then he looked over at Maedhros, who eyed him warily, his face pinched as if in pain. 

“Now,” Caranthir murmured, “I have an idea, Nelyo, and it’s an idea that I think is going to help you. Are you listening?”

Wide-eyed, Maedhros stared at him, but faintly he nodded.

“Good.” Caranthir smiled. “Now, I am not going to do anything that you don’t want me to do, and I need you to understand that. I am not going to let anything bad happen to you. But I want you to do something for me. What I’m going to do is, I’m going to lay out my hand here, just on the edge of the bed, see?”

As he spoke, very slowly Caranthir extended his right hand, to which the bedside lay parallel, and laid it palm up upon the edge of the blankets. Maedhros’ eyes flickered from Caranthir’s face to his hand, and he stared at his fingers as if they might suddenly lunge up to bite him. But for his obvious anxiety Maedhros did not pull away, and taking that as a sign of encouragement Caranthir continued. 

“Well, my hand is going to lie right there, Nelyo, and I’m not going to move one inch closer, not unless you want me to. Because I want you to be the one to do the moving. When you are ready, and not a moment before, I want _you_ to reach out and touch me. Just for a moment, even if it’s only the slightest of brushes, that’s all right. I’m not going to move, and nothing bad is going to happen. I just want to show you that it’s okay for you to touch us, and maybe then it might be all right if we could touch you, and we could help you get better even quicker.

But before we even think about that, I want you to do this for me. I want you to trust me. I want us to be friends like we used to be, _brothers_ like we used to be. And I want you to be the one to make that move.”   

Maedhros blinked at his brother in consternation, and kindly Caranthir smiled at him before turning his head aside. His right hand remained supine upon the blankets, and with his left he took up his stitching once more, and such was his mastery of the craft that he was almost as comfortable using just the one hand as he was using the two.  

A long while dragged through the tent, and contentedly Caranthir continued his sewing, almost ignoring his brother as deftly he cross-stitched a point of the star. At last Maedhros shifted, he leaned slightly inwards towards Caranthir, staring in suspicion at his extended hand. Minutes trickled by, and then mustering his courage, with excruciating care Maedhros began to edge his left hand sideways, pausing nearly with each second as if expecting some cruel trap to rear up and skewer him.

Caranthir calmly continued his stitch-work, outwardly paying little heed to Maedhros’ movements. With an intense look of concentration knotted over his face Maedhros shifted his hand a little further forward, his bony fingers scarcely an inch from the edge of Caranthir’s thumb. Then quickly, in one startled little burst his hand darted forward, his forefingers stroked for the slightest instant over the base of Caranthir’s thumb, before he snatched his hand back, looking fearfully up at Caranthir as he awaited whatever hideous reprisal would surely follow such boldness.

But to Maedhros’ abject surprise, none was forthcoming. _Nothing happened_. His brother seemed to ignore him, and suddenly worry broke anew in him. Maybe he had done it wrong? But he had done what Moryo said, hadn’t he? He had touched him, even if it was for a moment. But maybe it wasn’t enough of a moment, maybe he would be punished if he didn’t do it right, if he didn’t do it again, and for a moment that horrifying, drowning fear swamped through him. But through that despair something else chimed, some tiny part of him squashed deep down inside suddenly kindled into life; and inexplicably, stupidly, it compelled him to believe what Caranthir had said. Maybe nothing bad _would_ happen?

That compulsion stoked to a bright glede of resolve within him, and buoyed by the strange lack of rebuke he inched his hand forward once more. Lightly his fingers lingered over Caranthir’s thumb, and when still nothing went wrong; nothing hurt, no one slapped him, no one shouted at him, then shakily he slid his fingers forward, slipping around Caranthir’s thumb to hover against his index finger and the inner edge of his palm. 

From his chair Caranthir smiled encouragingly, but true to his word he did not move, he did not even try to make eye contact; merely he smiled down at his cloth and continued his running stitch along the glimmering ray of the star. 

Maedhros swallowed hard; indecision and fear and sudden, unbidden courage swirled through him, and after a moment of disillusion courage blazed the brighter. In one clumsy, jerky motion his hand twitched forward another inch or so, and at last he held his palm crossways over Caranthir’s.

At that sudden touch Caranthir could feel the tension shake through his brother’s fingers, he could feel the little quivers of muscle that readied him to jerk backwards at even the slightest hint of alarm. So Caranthir did nothing, patiently he waited, until after a time Maedhros relaxed, and a little heavier did his palm weigh over Caranthir’s.

“I did it.”     

The hesitant little whisper fell from Maedhros’ lips, and taming the swell of pride that burst within his chest, Caranthir looked mildly over at his brother. With every ounce of self-control he possessed, Caranthir then dropped his gaze to their crossed palms, and with difficulty he suppressed the wild urge to grin. Rather, a controlled curl quirked over his lips and as evenly as he could manage, he murmured: “So you did.”

“Did I do it right?”

An anxious glimmer bled into Maedhros’ eyes, and reassuringly Caranthir smiled.

“Yes, you did.”

At his words Maedhros slumped back into the pillows, and all of the tension seemed to dissipate from him as he smiled in relief, and to Caranthir’s utmost surprise he did not break their contact. Maedhros exhaled one long, slow sigh, and peacefully then his eyes flickered shut, his palm still resting upon his brother’s.

Without disturbing that contact Caranthir picked up his embroidery once more, and in peaceful silence he sat for many minutes, working quietly at his artistry. Gradually he became aware of a small change in pressure upon his palm, and furtively he glanced over. 

Maedhros’ hand shifted slightly over his, and with a squeeze of tremulous emotion he watched the tendons across the back of Maedhros’ hand rise. Knuckles shone stark and pale beneath his papery skin, and a moment later he felt the grip tighten ever so slightly across his hand. His brother’s slim fingers curled about the edge of his little finger into a proper hold, clutching gently onto him as he sank down into the rhythms of sleep.

With a great surge of both happiness and melancholy Caranthir fought down the temptation to return that hold, to fold his fingers inwards and truly envelop Maedhros in his grasp, in nothing more than simple brotherly affection. But even that compassion would be a betrayal; solemnly he had promised that he would not move, and from that had sprung the trust for Maedhros to dare a feat which was so abhorrent to him, which was so obviously an effort, and to destroy that fragile trust for his own petty comforts would be the utmost disgrace. So motionless he remained, but before he could quite stop himself he found his gaze wandering the expanse of Maedhros’ forearm.   

Little did Caranthir know of torture, and for that mercy he was glad. For all the more closely now could he see the scars that ridged over Maedhros’ forearm in ugly knots of white, bulbous tissue, and the thinner, crueler lines that etched between them like a spider’s frail web formed of mutilated skin. In morbid fascination his eyes moved upwards, tracing the scars that patterned crazily over his skin like some obscene labyrinth. Just before the exposed crook of Maedhros’ elbow a wheal was scored into his arm; some horrid, shapeless twist of tissue stood livid from his skin, and from what monstrous instrument of torment that had been inflicted Caranthir could not bring himself to speculate.  

Anger glowed once more in his stomach, but before it could master him he looked away, and hard he fought to stop his hand closing into a protective fist about Maedhros’ gaunt fingers. Gradually he forced that fury down, and in placid silence he just let his brother hold him as he returned to his sewing, and he contented himself with that simple intimacy. 

The hours rolled on and peacefully Maedhros slept, all the while clinging gently to Caranthir’s hand. The pallid sun was beginning her fall towards the western mountains when a soft knock came at the tent post outside and Caranthir stirred from his needlework; the star nearly completed. Softly he bade the newcomer enter, and a moment later both Fingon and Curufin stepped through the tent-flaps, pushing the hoods of their dripping oil-skin cloaks back from their faces.  

At the sight that greeted them, Maedhros’ hand curled around Caranthir’s, both stared in astonishment. A wry smile curved over Curufin’s lips as he began to peel off his cloak, but Fingon stood still as stone, and he whispered, “How did you do that?” 

After a long moment of silence, Caranthir replied, “I was patient. And in truth, I was lucky.”

At his words Fingon blinked, and in contemplative quiet he unpicked the fastenings of his own cloak, and set it neatly down beside Curufin’s. With Curufin beside him, Fingon stepped over to the bedside, and hope glimmered in his dark eyes as he spied all the nearer the soft clutch of his cousin’s fingers about Caranthir’s hand.

“ _You_ managed it, then?” Curufin murmured, in surprise that was not altogether feigned grinning down at Caranthir. “You will excuse my saying, Moryo, but if I were forced to take a wager, I would not have bet on you.” 

Caranthir’s eyes flared like hot coals beneath his craggy brows, but Fingon could see the amusement in them as he smiled back, “Me neither.” 

“How did you –“

Fingon’s words cut off as suddenly Maedhros jerked in his sleep; the first major movement he had made in all that time, and his left hand slipped from Caranthir’s to curl protectively over his stomach. As one, three pairs of eyes looked concernedly down at him, but Maedhros then lay quiet, and gave no further cause for alarm.

For a short while longer all three watched over him, until at last Caranthir unfolded himself from the chair, stretching a little after such long hours of stillness. He readied himself to depart, collecting up both his embroidery and the empty cup, but before he left he turned to Fingon, whose gaze lingered with both worry and subtle longing upon Maedhros as he slept.

“Be patient with him, Finno,” Caranthir rumbled. “We cannot yet fathom what he has endured, nor the true depths of the damage. Be patient, and let him come to you, if you can.” 

Those soft words hung in the air between them, but suddenly they were scattered as Maedhros moaned, and his head twitched upon the pillows. Worriedly Caranthir looked over to him, but after a moment of hesitation he left, closing the tent flaps behind him.

Fingon settled himself in the chair, whilst Curufin crossed to the right hand side of the bed, aiming to take a brief examination of the brace upon Maedhros’ shoulder and re-check the security of its fit.

Fingon leaned upon one arm of the chair, and closely he watched as Curufin slipped his fingers beneath the cloth of the sling, softly feeling for the padded rods of metal over Maedhros’ collarbone and upper arm and checking that they were still well aligned. Over the next few minutes, Curufin felt about the straps and bandages that looped over Maedhros’ shoulder, occasionally pausing to note down an observation upon a scrap of parchment, and silently Fingon watched his progress. Maedhros did not seem to react to Curufin’s presence, but more than once he stirred fitfully, his entire body jerked in the grips of some unpleasant dream and with mounting concern Fingon watched over him.

Still, Curufin showed no signs of undue alarm even as Maedhros moaned softly, and a whimpering little cry bled from his lips a moment later. Fingon shifted in discomfort, and as he winced Curufin caught his eye. 

Curufin seemed about to speak when suddenly Maedhros jolted, and over his lips a broken series of snarled, half mumbled syllables fell. Fingon blinked in puzzlement, those sounds were none that he recognised, and he glanced at Curufin once more. And at the look of such unutterable revulsion that flared over his cousin’s usually controlled face, Fingon’s heart began to pound.  

 

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_The hugest thank you to anyone who has got this far, and more to come soon, I promise! xx_


	8. Seregon

_My profuse apologies for the slight delay in the posting of this chapter. What can I say? Life. Busy. Ugh._   
_But better late than never!_   
_Special mention to the wonderful **likes-drawing-elves,** whose medical expertise has not only kept me on my toes thus far, but who really helped me sort out a few headcanons that become particularly involved in this chapter. So a massive thank you, and to everyone, enjoy! xx_

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SEREGON

“What is it?” 

Curufin did not reply, he merely stared down at Maedhros as one stricken.

“Curvo,” Fingon insisted. Upon the bed Maedhros fell quiet, his fumbled speech bled away into the silence that stretched throughout the tent and he slept peacefully once more. But halted over Maedhros’ form Curufin stood rigid, a livid expression of mingled horror and odium contorted over his face. 

“Curvo, what is it? What’s wrong?” 

The silence that gaped between them was cavernous. It seemed to soak up Fingon’s words.

“Nothing,” Curufin finally muttered, his voice catching in his throat. Fingon’s eyes narrowed as he leaned forward in his chair, and piercingly he stared at his cousin. It was unlike Curufin to be evasive when matters became pressed, and the instance of his caginess now was more than enough to set alarm blaring within Fingon’s heart. For long moments more Fingon stared at his cousin, silently willing him to explain himself, but Curufin would not be drawn from his laconism. In a short, quick movement Curufin spun about, and furiously he scribbled something down on his scrap of parchment that lay upon the chest of drawers.   

In wary disquiet Fingon sank back into the chair. His eyes flickered concernedly over Maedhros, although for now his cousin's sleep was untroubled. Furtively then he glanced at Curufin, who stood half pivoted away from him, his face hidden by the sweep of his unbound hair as he wrote. For a while Fingon watched him; his eyes oddly drawn to the flash and shiver of the metal pierced through the helix of Curufin’s left ear, the rings peeking through the fall of his hair. The scratch of his quill tip against the parchment hissed through the tent, and each tap and scrape of the nib sent a host of inexplicable shudders crawling over Fingon’s skin.

Curufin dipped his quill into a pot of ink set nearby, and as he moved Fingon could see the blotches of ink smudged up the outer edge of his left hand and wrist. Curufin began to write again, and for a moment Fingon wondered if he should tell him, if only to break the grating whine and scratch of his writing. But swiftly that fancy passed, it would probably only irritate his cousin to be so condescendingly reminded of the hazards of left-handedness.

Almost guiltily Fingon looked away, and his eyes came to rest on the brace strapped over Maedhros’ right shoulder, and the slim outline of his severed wrist cradled within the sling. Fingon wondered if one day he might have to warn Maedhros of smudging his ink as he wrote. All the motions that had come so naturally to him would now seem strange, seem inverse, he thought. Maedhros would have to re-learn the tasks of daily life with his left hand, if he could.

In brooding melancholy Fingon watched over Maedhros’ sleep until Curufin wandered over once more. Lightly he ran his fingers over the brace, fastidiously checking the tightness of the straps and the flexibility of the leather, ensuring that they were not cutting into Maedhros’ skin as he slept and that the buckles were not leaving further marks upon his already marred flesh. Seemingly contented that nothing was amiss, Curufin moved back over to the drawers and continued recording his newest observations. A few moments passed then in quietude, until Maedhros stirred once more.   

Softly he jerked, the movement rippling up from his stomach, and as his head rolled to the side across the pillows Fingon saw that the curls of his hair were plastered to his cheeks with a fresh sheen of sweat. For a moment Fingon considered leaning forward and stroking Maedhros’ hair back, but before he had the chance to move sharply Maedhros inhaled; a strangled gasp hissed in over his teeth that looked all too much like the shocked breathlessness of pain. For an instant then Maedhros settled, until he flinched again. He cringed away into the blankets as though an invisible assailant had struck him, and although his eyes remained shut, his brow crinkled into a pinched expression of misery. 

In rapidly building concern Fingon peered at him, grappling down the urge to reach forward and stroke him, to soothe him in the way that instinct screamed at him to; to create comfort by the gentle touch of skin upon skin. With difficulty he pushed that urge aside, and even as his eyes rested worriedly upon Maedhros’ drawn face, a new set of syllables tripped over his cousin’s lips. Frantic, breathless snarls of speech curled out of his throat, guttural yet plaintive, and although Fingon could not discern their meaning, the tone with which they were uttered betrayed their horror.   

Maedhros’ speech dwindled, and the quill’s nib cracked in Curufin’s hand.

Dismayed, Fingon turned aside from Maedhros, and instead looked concernedly at Curufin. The broken quill was clenched in his cousin’s fist, the spilled ink was bleeding across the page beneath it from where the pressure had snapped it, and a sudden suspicion tore through Fingon’s mind. He blinked, he tried to shake it away, but as he beheld Curufin’s expression, his cousin staring down at the parchment as though through the force of his gaze he might set it aflame, those little hooks of disquiet embedded themselves within him.

“Curvo,” Fingon began; those hooks seemed to drag him forward where caution might otherwise have warned him to leave the matter alone. “Curvo, what’s wrong?” 

“Nothing!” Curufin spat, but he would not meet Fingon’s eye. Curufin’s head lifted, and bleakly he stared at the white canvas walls. A spasm of some indeterminate emotion writhed over his face, and Fingon could feel the effort it took for him to restrain it, to muzzle whatever explosive emotion it longed to tumble into. At length Curufin managed to rein himself back into a terse neutrality. The muscles along his neck corded beneath his skin, but a little more steadily he muttered: “Nothing. It’s fine. Don’t… don’t worry about it.” 

“It is not fine. _Tell me_.” A note of command crept into Fingon’s voice. With increasing mistrust he looked upon his cousin and his dismissals, and with it his patience withered. “What is the matter, Curvo? What are you trying to hide?”

“Nothing!” Curufin snapped. Abruptly he swing around to face Fingon, the remnant of an ugly grimace lingering over his face before he could wholly wipe it away. But that moment; that tiny, puissant flash of emotion was all that Fingon needed, and icy realisation slicked through his stomach. 

“You know,” he whispered. “You _know_ what he said.”

Curufin’s lip twitched, but he did not try to deny it.

“Tell me!” Fingon demanded, pushing himself free of the chair and stalking about the tent, before planting himself firmly before his cousin at the foot of the bed. “Tell me what he said!” 

Fingon’s arms crossed over his chest, and expectantly he awaited his cousin’s reply. But where he had anticipated rebuke, or outright refusal, he was met with only a vague sadness, a gloom that seemed to leach through every fibre of Curufin’s being.

“Would it really make you feel better to know?”

Curufin’s low voice reverberated through the air between them, and for a split second Fingon paused. If _Curufin_ of all people was reluctant to tell him, then perhaps it truly was better not to know. But at that thought bright anger ignited in him again, torn between two sources. He was not a child, he did not have to be shielded from this, and Curufin did not have the right to withhold that information, not from him. Yet that was only the crest of the wave of his indignation as like an avalanche the implications of Curufin’s knowledge crashed down on him.

Every fleeting shred of doubt about his cousin’s mysterious disappearances was dragged screaming into the light, every raised eyebrow at his clandestine activities within those catacombs, every elusion and evasion and airy shirking of questions about what _exactly_ he had been doing in those hours of absence coalesced, they knotted together in stark, undeniable clarity. They were ripped of their concealments and laid bare before him. He stared at Curufin in choking disbelief; he could taste the acrid bile that came bubbling up his throat.

“Don’t play games with me, Curvo,” he growled, the sudden impetus of his righteousness, of his cousin’s _wrongness_ goading him to furor. “I know what you have been doing. I have seen you slip from the borders of this camp by night, I have seen you pass into those caves that you skulk in, whose mouths you will not suffer anyone else to pass. Why is that, I wonder? What is it that you do not want us to see?” 

At Fingon’s spite, Curufin did not flinch. Merely he watched and he waited for his cousin’s vitriol to run its course.

“I have seen you go, and I have listened,” Fingon continued. “Despite the best of your efforts, not all noises are dampened by those walls of stone. Alchemical refinement, you said to Káno. Smithying, I have heard you remark to others. Tell me, for truly I am now curious. What sort of metal must you scourge to make it _scream_ like that?”   

If Fingon expected some grandiose exclamation of anger, or some crumbling, guilt-ridden apology, then he was left sorely disappointed. For Curufin regarded him only with faint disinterest, with such an insolent air of nonchalance that for a moment Fingon wanted to slap him. At last though Curufin shifted his hips, and smoothly he replied, “And what would you know of it?”

“It’s _sick,_ Curvo! Whatever you are doing in there, and whatever you are doing it to… These experiments, or… or trials, whatever name you give to them, they are wrong! They –“ 

Fingon’s speech was abruptly interrupted as Maedhros spluttered, the breath catching in his throat. His eyes remained shut, but violently he shuddered as the talons of some dread nightmare sunk in. Both Fingon and Curufin eyed him concernedly, but after a few moments more of restlessness Maedhros subsided back into the peaceful rhythms of sleep, and cautiously they turned away. A cool silence slid through the room as both cousins cagily beheld the other, a sullen reluctance to strike up the argument anew left curdling in the air between them.   

Curufin finally broke that stillness. With something approaching resent he glared over at Fingon, yet his voice remained tightly controlled as he murmured, “At least I’m doing something…” 

“What?” Fingon’s voice carved through the air, brittle in its offense.

“I’m doing something, Finno. For far too long we have remained passive as the Enemy spreads his cancer through these lands, while his servants seek to defile it. You are a commander, are you not? Then well you should understand: the principals of warfare, or combat of any sort, rely upon understanding one’s enemies. Know his strengths, and know his flaws, and therein he might be undone. You have led warriors into battle, you have spent years of your life in the sparring ring; it is one and the same, and you know it. Discover your opponent’s weakness and ensnare him within it, to his doom.”

A curl of disdain flickered over Fingon’s lips, but he could not deny the truth in Curufin’s words. Grudgingly he held his silence, and Curufin continued:

“How then, in this case, do you reconcile to yourself the _wanting_ in your knowledge? Bauglir and the Valaraukar, and others of that poisonous ilk, they are known to us, loath as I am to even acknowledge that familiarity. But the other servants of the Enemy remain legion, and enigma. They are unknown to us in their make-up, in their natures. Some points are evidently plain without the need for extensive investigation, but what of deeper things? What of the intricacies of their physiologies? Might they have points of weakness among their anatomy that we might exploit to our advantage? 

What of their beliefs, their convictions, their hierarchies? Do they answer to the single Lord, or are there networks of informants and rankings? Even in their foul battalions we have seen a semblance of order: what are their chains of command, and where do they lead? It would be foolish to assume that they are tantamount to our own. Who could guess what anarchic logic one such as Bauglir might utilise amongst his servants? But surely these chains of command exist, and therefore they might be broken, if only we knew where to strike. Even their corrupt language must be discerned, even if only in part, such that interrogations might be made, or less foolish pacts brokered.

We _cannot_ remain ignorant of our enemies, Finno, this much now is clear to me. We face an opponent who is intimately familiar with us, yet we know almost nothing of his forces. You would have us remain at such a disadvantage? Certainly Káno has given little heed to my advice, no matter how much I implore him to see the reason within it. Many qualities he possesses that serve him well as a king, but a delicate set of morals is not one of them. This investigation is necessary; it is paramount to our survival and our victory, and in time he will be made to see the efficacy of the results, even if the methodology rankles him.”

“You speak cunningly, Curvo,” Fingon said derisively, “yet your suggestion is plain despite your veiled words. But such means _cannot_ justify this end. This is _barbaric…”_

“We are at war,” Curufin replied coldly, and obsidian menace glittered in his eyes. “The end is the _only_ thing that matters. Victory, swift and decisive, is the only way, since past attempts at parley have gone so badly awry. What then would you not do to achieve that victory? To stop more of your family’s blood from being spilled? Already we have lost too many, and those that survive are changed. 

If ruthlessness is required on my part to stop this, to ensure that it will never happen again, then gladly I would do it, and I do not see the wrong of it. What remorse has the Enemy ever shown us?”

Curufin’s question hovered in the air, and only after a long pause did Fingon realise that it was not entirely rhetorical, and that Curufin was actually looking for an answer. Yet reticence still burned within him; his cousin’s supposed deeds were appalling, be they well intentioned or no. Despite the subtle elements of truth in Curufin’s words, instinctive disgust blazed the stronger within him, and bitterly he replied, “You are no better than they are.”     

A thin grimace contorted over Curufin’s lips, and upon some capricious whim Fingon half hoped that his response might sting him into further confrontation. But Curufin seemed to absorb his scorn; indeed he emitted a tiny scoff of laughter. 

Affront burst through Fingon’s chest, it seemed to scorch over his ribs. How could Curufin make jest at such dire implications? How could he find humour in that debasement? 

In bewildered irritation Fingon stared at his cousin, somehow unsure of quite how to phrase the outrage that tightened within him. But before the words could form Curufin suddenly spoke. His tone was light, almost casual, and all the more unsettling for it. 

“Have you ever given thought to how it is that Turko knows so much about anatomy? Or Nyériel, or me for my part, or any of the other healers of the Eldar?”

At such an odd question, Fingon blinked, and momentarily he set aside his anger. He frowned, his dark eyes searching Curufin’s face as his cousin continued.

“Have you ever wondered where all this information comes from? We know such intricate details about the anatomy; things that are so far beyond the innate, instinctive knowledge of ourselves that we are born with. How is it then, do you think, that we know these subtle things? 

Rarely do we dissect our own; until the most recent of times there has not been the need, nor the opportunity. Conjecture from analogous parts of animal physiology is piecemeal; in some ways we are similar, in others starkly opposite. Yet with unerring accuracy the healers have mended our minor hurts, using information gleaned from… where, do you think? While none had been slain until by Bauglir’s hand, accidents have occurred, as well you know. Turko dislocated his arm in a horseback fall; Irissë nearly broke her wrist in that sparring tournament, as I recall it. How many other accidental injuries have there been among our people? These things happen. And each time their maladies were set aright by the healers among us to great success. We wished the sufferers speedy recoveries, and praised the healers of their skills, and thought little more of it. But did it ever occur to you to question how the healers came to know how to mend such hurts? Where did such extensive knowledge of the _hröa_ originate?”

Fingon’s brow furrowed as he considered Curufin’s question. He would not proclaim himself naïve in the matters of the world, but in the channels of such unfamiliar thought he was stymied. Simply, he had never given much consideration to the matter. These sorts of things were surely something that the healers studies, from textbooks and lectures given by those wiser in lore than they, as one would come to master any such subject. But then, he wondered suddenly, where did _their_ teachers’ wisdom come from? 

A pall of doubt crept through Fingon’s heart, and with the first hints of hesitancy he reached for the answer that chimed the loudest in his mind. 

“The Valar,” he said, throwing as much conviction as he could behind his assertion. Curufin arched an eyebrow at him, silently bidding him rationalise his argument.

“The Valar,” Fingon repeated, a little more firmly this time. “The Valar and the Maiar disseminate their knowledge in worldly things among the Eldar, the origin of which was obtained by the grace of the One.” 

A rueful smile crossed Curufin’s lips, and something akin to pity shone in his inky eyes. 

“You guess half correctly, cousin.”

Fingon’s eyes narrowed, he jerked backwards a fraction in an unconscious expression of confusion. All too keenly did suspicion rise in him again; that feeling of missing some crucial fragment of a larger picture, and coldly the sensation of ignorance twisted in his stomach.

Fingon squinted up at Curufin, who looked back at him; his gaze tinged with sadness.

“What are you saying, then?” Fingon asked. And even as the words fell over his lips, a thought occurred to him, Curufin’s implications began to slot into place. But that was impossible, it was unthinkable, _He_ couldn’t have…   

“The Valar know much of our kindred,” Curufin said gravely. “But one among them knows more than the rest. And if you think that knowledge was gained by any grace or permission of the One, then most seriously you are mistaken.”

The room seemed to tilt. The breath caught in Fingon’s lungs. 

“No!” he gasped, every fibre of his rational mind trying to thrust aside that abhorrent thought. Desperately he looked into Curufin’s eyes, searching there for even a glimmer of jest, against all hope praying that there might be a shred of doubt or deceit or sadistic mischief in those dark eyes. But the absence of such emotion chilled him to the bone. 

“No,” Fingon murmured. “No, it’s not true! It’s not…” His voice cracked upon the final syllable as horror clutched at him. For before his very eyes the principles which he had unconsciously believed in were corroding, the stalwart foundations that held up everything he knew were revealed in their decay, were revealed in their _lie_ , as piece by piece the stones that held them up were stripped away. 

“He walked among us,” Curufin said quietly, “cloaked in his regret, shrouded in his penitence. We believed him repentant of his crimes, all those ages ago, and we welcomed him among us in faith that his contrition was genuine. Yet he stalked among us as a wolf disguised, beguiling his little lambs until we were too late to see his claws.”

“No,” Fingon protested, but even to himself his words rang hollow, and feebly they crawled from his lips. “No, you’re lying…” 

“Bauglir offered us his knowledge, Finno, and blindly we took it. Not in arrogance, or jealousy, but for the sheer _wonder_ of it. The things that he spoke of… the details of the _hröa_ and the _fëa_ that he told filled scholar and layman alike with awe. Kindly he spoke, venerable and wise he seemed, and he told of such phenomenal things that none could close their ears to his words. 

For how else might we understand our own internal minutiae? The mysteries of our own bodies were now revealed before us, at the hand of one so much greater than ourselves. It would have been foolish not to heed him. Without his diagrams, how else might we come to know that the left recurrent laryngeal nerve is looped about the aorta? How might we come to appreciate the development of the foetus within the womb? The tender folds of flesh he explained, each invagination and enervation of tissue, the proliferation of the minute into something larger, from the indistinct into something tangible and whole and bursting with life. With such transfixing detail he imparted that information, such that even the _nissi_ , to whom such knowledge is after a fashion innate, were entranced.”

With deadened passion Curufin spoke. The bleakness of his tone scraped against the luxury of his words, and within that juxtaposition a new, insidious horror was born. Fingon’s stomach clenched as realization broke within him; his eyes widened as Curufin’s words began to sink in, and with them was dragged up the unthinkable. How would Bauglir know such things? How _could_ he know? Unless…

“Stop it,” Fingon croaked, more in some futile attempt to dispel the horror that swelled within himself rather than in response to his cousin. Viciously he batted aside the images that flitted through his mind, he clung with failing conviction to the notion that Curufin was wrong, he _had_ to be wrong, this could not be possible… 

“Vala he is,” Curufin said sadly. “And he is innately wise in many matters. But not in that. Such knowledge took _discovery._ In some impure place deep amid the bowels of the earth, he kept his prisoners. He took our kinsmen, Finno, into dungeons so fouled that bright Arien herself could not burn them clean, into caverns so black that their screams would never haunt the light of day. In those depths he imprisoned them, he tortured them, he ripped them apart for his own vile amusements, and what he learned he fed to us, like tainted honey dripping from his hands. And blinded by our thirst for knowledge, that relentless drive to understand ourselves, we licked their blood from his fingers. Like flies to carrion we were drawn, and we did not realize our folly until it was too late.

So think on Nelyo’s plight with more pity, if you can. Think upon how many of the Eldar were violated for Turko and I to know how best to help him. How many limbs, how many torsos were broken for us to understand the pectoral girdle? How many muscles were cloven, or severed, or twisted beyond all recognition for us to understand their healing patterns? 

How many babes were ripped untimely from the wombs of their mothers? In what stench, in what reeking gouts of embryonic fluid and blood were their membranes snapped, their limbs mutilated in uncaring hands? Or those yet younger, merely a tangle of veins and sinew, torn from their mothers in one brutal haemhorrage, examined and recorded and dashed to the floor to perish once their fleeting lives had exhausted their purposes.” 

Curufin grew quiet, and true remorse bled into his eyes as he looked upon Maedhros’ scarred, broken form. A pained quirk passed over his lips, and without turning back to Fingon, he murmured: 

“How many of our kindred had to die so that we would know how to save his life?”

Fingon turned aside, unable to bear the terrible expression that broke across Curufin’s face. Heavily he sat upon the chest top, and his head seemed to bow with the weight of all that had been revealed. His hands clenched into tight fists around the edges of the chest’s lid, and bitterly Fingon strove to calm the seethe of emotions within him; anger and sorrow and betrayal all warped and crushed into one confused mess inside of him. Shakily he inhaled a few steadying breaths, until at last from that tumult one emotion emerged the clearer: revulsion burned in his heart. It drove like a lance through him, from general dismay it sharpened into pointed vehemence, and he bit back the scalding retort that prickled upon his lips. Spurred on by that indignation Fingon raised his head to glare at Curufin, who stood revealed in all of his truth, and all of his corruption before him. He stamped that wild disgust down into cold, shivering fury; whilst Maedhros slept peacefully he would not be so uncouth as to raise his voice and disturb him, but he looked at Curufin with repugnance in his eyes. 

“You, Curvo,” he spat. “You do these… these _things_?”  

“No,” Curufin replied, his voice hardening as he sensed the challenge in Fingon’s tone. “I have not the inclination for wanton savagery. I do what I must to find answers to my questions, and no more. I repay their debt in their bloodied currency, and with far more mercy than they deserve.” 

“This is wrong, Curvo. I do not care what information you glean. This behaviour is unnatural. Servants of the Enemy they might be, but this…” Naked loathing blistered in Fingon’s voice, and little attempt he made to conceal it. “Doing what they do, and knowing it, _relishing_ it, torturing another living thing for information that might be gained otherwise… This is wrong. This is _cruel_ , beyond what I would expect even of you!”

“May it be so!” Curufin snarled, and he stepped menacingly towards Fingon. “Think what you like of me, Finno, but at least I am helping. I am contributing to the Enemy’s demise, and I am healing my brother!”

Fingon scoffed derisively, and he tossed his head as he turned away from Curufin’s glower. But his cousin continued, his voice soft and yet struck through with barbs of venom as he sneered, “What do _you_ do, save fawn over Nelyo like a love-sick pup?” 

Fingon froze, and with a contemptuous smirk that he could not quite resist, Curufin spun about on his heel, snatching up his ink-stained parchment and folding it neatly away into his pocket. He turned to depart, but where he expected emptiness he found instead his cousin standing before him, incandescent fury blazing in his eyes. 

“You have no right to say that,” Fingon said, spitting the words up into Curufin’s face. 

Curufin snorted before taking a step forward, shrugging Fingon aside. But with startling force Fingon grabbed him, one fist knotted itself into the lapels of Curufin’s tunic and held him there, rooting him awkwardly into place as Fingon glared up at him.

“Don’t turn your back on me!” Fingon growled, and in mocking response Curufin rolled his eyes, looking blandly back at Fingon even as the grip tightened about his tunic. Fingon bit back a snarl of rage, and he jerked Curufin forward, a fresh wave of annoyance sent storming through him at the bored little sigh that emanated from his cousin’s lips. 

“Remember who it was who brought Nelyo back,” Fingon hissed. “And remember who it was who consigned him to this misery in the first place.”

At that Curufin bridled, but despite his ignoble position, to Fingon’s colossal ire he still managed to be haughty. 

“Throw your saviour complex down someone else’s throat, Finno,” he sneered. “The time for heroics has long since faded, and I have little patience for those who use such deeds as a shield for their own impotence.” 

Violently Curufin jerked himself back, and Fingon did not have the heart to restrain him. His fingers fell limply from his cousin’s tunic, as in that moment his anger died away to deathly weariness, to a numbing melancholy that seemed to leach outwards from his bones. Curufin stepped back a fraction, regarding Fingon coolly as he awaited whatever reaction those potentially unwise words might elicit. 

Fingon’s eyes wandered sadly over Maedhros’ slumbering form. The sight of the brace upon his shoulder prodded at him, the livid brand that knotted over the left side of his chest sent a shiver of horror through Fingon’s heart, but somehow their puissance seemed to have faded, their razors had been blunted into dull nausea, and in mute sorrow Fingon looked away. 

Hateful though the thought might be, he could not deny the truth in Curufin’s words. What good could he do now? He was no healer of renown, nor loremaster of medicine. He was a warrior, a leader, an adventurer. He was a catalyst of change, a being of fluidity and hope and endurance. But when the catalyst burned itself out, its vivacity lost to the taint of pitted metal, the surface clotted and snarled and useless, how could the reaction continue? When the equilibrium fell apart, what purpose was left to it, except to crumble into nothingness, or be cast aside and replaced?

He would be lying to himself if he said that the thoughts had not already tracked over his mind. But hearing them upon another’s lips with all their dreadful confirmation; they carved fresh furrows of grief through his heart.  

_“Now is the time for bravery without splendour, and for strength that comes not from the swing of a sword.”_

Unbidden, his own words chimed within his head, sage advice given to Maglor in a moment of despair those long weeks ago. Bitterly now did Fingon remember them; how easily, how assuredly they had flown from his lips then in compassion, but now they rang hollow. The hypocrisy of them stung: what use were they in the end? They were just words. Stupid, pointless words.

Such drear thoughts swirled within him, and morosely he looked to Maedhros, his eyes lingering upon a gnarled scar that twisted over his left bicep. Curufin’s scorn lingered beside him, it prickled against his skin, and from within that combined discomfort somehow Fingon found his strength. Mustering his will he seized his cousin’s haughtiness, he grasped all those feelings of uselessness, of his own obsolescence and he twisted them, he wrung them out and made them anew, as hard and unyielding as fresh-forged steel. 

He could not heal Maedhros. His moment of deliverance was long since passed. He could not save his cousin from the ravages of his body, he could not re-sew muscle or smooth flesh clean. Nor truly could he free Maedhros from the snares of memory, from the miserable entrapments and horrors strung within his mind; he could not wipe them away, he could not take back what had been done. But maybe he could help in other ways. In little things, in gentle deeds, maybe he could help to lighten the discomforts of recovery, in some small way alleviate the worst of the _fëa’s_ hurts. He could tell Maedhros his stories, of lands where the rivers ran swift and wild, and the stars shone unclouded; he could play his tunes upon his harp, he could tell him the sagas of these new, wide countries, and in so help to coax Maedhros back to himself. 

In his own quiet way, maybe he could love him. And if Maedhros did not want his love, then maybe he could just be his friend.

That resolve settled upon Fingon; immutable, almost sacrosanct. At the very least, he could do this, and he _would_ do this. That purpose crackled through his veins, it sang through his lungs, and with sudden surety he drew himself up and turned back around to face Curufin. 

His cousin stood casually before him, and his eyes glimmered in wry curiosity at Fingon’s changed demeanour. He did not speak, but Fingon recognized the subtle respect with which Curufin now looked at him, as if he had sensed the re-forging of his will and accepted it. A solemn smile curved faintly over Curufin’s lips, and he nodded to Fingon in farewell, before stepping forward to pass him by. Fingon allowed him to go, but as Curufin neared the tent’s exit, a sudden thought sprang into his mind. 

“You never answered me, Curvo,” he said, and Curufin halted just short of the tent’s draped flaps. “What did Nelyo say?”  

A long pause hung in the air. Curufin stood motionless, and even though his face was averted from Fingon’s view, all too clearly did the air of despondency drip from him. Patiently Fingon waited, but Curufin stood as one graven in stone, relaxed but for the awful, gradual clench of his fist about the canvas drape.

“Please,” Fingon whispered. “What did he say?” 

Curufin’s reply was short, but it echoed in the air long after he had departed.

“Were I as cruel as you think me, Finno, I would tell you.”


	9. Valerian

VALERIAN

The sun had just crested over the shadow-swathed mountains to the east when Maglor and Celegorm came to relieve Fingon of his vigil. From under the grey slurry of the clouds they ducked through the tent flaps, and wearily Fingon glanced up at them as they entered. His hair straggled in a messy, unbound tumult across the cushions where he was sprawled, a burned-out lantern and a scrawled series of drawings set down beside him. An imposing-looking book was cracked open over his lap, and over its gilt cover Fingon yawned out a slightly garbled greeting. 

At that less than suave salutation Maglor arched an eyebrow, before moving across the tent to help him up. Upon the chest top Celegorm began laying out the array of medical supplies necessary for the re-dressing of Maedhros’ wounds, and Fingon’s tired eyes slipped from his cousin’s peaceful face to the gloom of what awaited him. Bandages spilled across the chest, their linen lengths coming unraveled alongside surgical needles, thread, padded strips of gauze, cloth, numerous small pots of pungent poultices and herbs, and a steaming bowl of _athelas_ infusion nestled at the very centre of the clutter.  

Fingon stretched as Maglor pulled him to his feet, shaking out muscles grown stiff from long hours of stillness. Once he felt able to walk without staggering, he wandered over to where Celegorm was arranging his tools. It was a swaged needle that Celegorm checked, Fingon recalled, the information flicking blandly through his mind as though he were reading an encyclopaedia. The curved suture needle was threaded already with finest fibres of silk so that the surgeon need not waste time during a procedure threading the needle themselves, and they might ride the curvature of the metal to better puncture through both muscle and skin. Fingon had become uncomfortably familiar with such needles recently, and with that macabre thought Curufin’s words from the previous night came trickling back to him.

_Have you ever given thought to how it is that Turko knows so much about anatomy?_

With a shudder Fingon looked away, feeling a residual wash of nausea prickle through his stomach. Faintly then he bade his cousins a good morning, and made to depart. He had almost escaped to the tent’s exit when suddenly Celegorm’s voice pulled him up short.

“Was everything all right, Finno?” his cousin asked, looking across at him as reluctantly he turned back around. “Last night, did Nelyo sleep soundly? Was there anything that you were concerned about, anything that I should know?”

_… he imprisoned them, he tortured them, he ripped them apart for his own vile amusements…_

“No,” Fingon said, perhaps a little too quickly. Even to himself, his voice sounded strangled. “No, he… he spoke a bit in his sleep. Curvo probably told you that already though. But otherwise he was fine, he slept uninterrupted… Everything was fine.”

Fingon ended on what he hoped was a firm note, but at the strain in his voice even Maglor’s eyes narrowed. He smiled weakly back at them, and mustering what fortitude he could, he re-affirmed, “He was fine. He has slept soundly ever since Curvo departed.” 

“Good,” Celegorm replied crisply. Seemingly he was satisfied with that response, as he turned back to fiddling with his supplies, and Fingon breathed an inwards sigh of relief. If Celegorm had not noticed his unease then that was probably for the better, and Maglor usually had the tact not to make blithe comments if he sensed something was amiss. As airily as he could Fingon then bade his cousins farewell, and beat a hasty retreat from the tent before they could question him further.

“He’s not a very good liar,” Celegorm remarked dryly, not bothering to look up from where he was dusting the lengths of gauze with a powdered willow-bark extract that Curufin had been successful in refining.

With a rueful sigh Maglor turned back to face him. “No, he is not.”

Upon the bed Maedhros’ slumbering head crooked to the side upon the pillows, the coppery strands of his hair splayed out over one cheek, and Maglor wondered what it might be that Fingon was trying to conceal. After a moment’s consideration he gave up the attempt: conjecture would be fruitless, if indeed it was an issue at all. 

“Best just leave him be,” Maglor said to Celegorm. “You know what he is like. He will come out with it in the end, if he thinks it necessary. He would not hide anything of consequence, for Nelyo’s sake at the least.” 

Celegorm shrugged, busying himself with the gauze. For a while then Maglor helped him to prepare, and departed briefly to fetch the kettle of tea left to simmer atop a campfire nearby, its brew scented with chamomile leaves. Loath they were to wake Maedhros untimely, it seemed such a cruelty to drag him from the bliss of sleep, so for a while they contented themselves to talk; running over interesting points of the camp’s affairs, or idle snatches of gossip that Celegorm had overheard amongst the soldiery, or new reports of contact with their long-sundered brethren in the South.

Perhaps an hour had passed when Maedhros eased back into wakefulness. Blearily his eyes flickered open, and as best as he could he adjusted himself against the pillows, straightening out his neck and left arm from the night’s stiffness until he found a more comfortable position to rest in. Focus came slowly to him, but soon he looked upon his brothers with clarity, both of whom continued their casual chatter in an effort to reduce whatever alarm their presence might elicit. Maglor had settled himself in the chair upon the left side of the bed and Celegorm perched upon a free edge of the chest, but for the apparent ease of their conversation they both kept a vigilant eye on their brother. 

At last it seemed that Maedhros had wholly recognised them, and to their delight he did not instinctively recoil from their proximity. Celegorm stood and began gathering up the immediate necessities, while Maglor turned to face Maedhros fully.

“Good morning, Nelyo,” he murmured, a reassuring smile curved over his face. “How are you feeling?”  

Maedhros’ eyes slipped from Maglor’s face as he considered the question, his brow crinkling like a child’s when faced with a difficult puzzle. 

“I… I don’t know,” he whispered. “My… my arm hurts, a bit…”        

His speech trailed off into silence, and Maglor saw a flare of worry in his eyes, as if somehow he feared that he had said the wrong thing, or had revealed too much. 

“That’s all right,” Maglor nodded, tilting his head to catch Maedhros’ gaze within his own once more, hoping that through eye contact his sincerity might be made all the more plain. “We’re going to make it stop hurting. We’re going to do what we always do. You’re going to come forward into my arms, and Turko is going to make sure that you are all right, yes?” 

At his words Maedhros froze, and dismay began to pulse in the base of Maglor’s stomach. More and more Maedhros had become accepting of the morning routine, and only rarely would he protest their actions, typically in the aftermath of the grisly nightmares that sometimes tore through his dreams. Maedhros’ lips quirked, a ghost of speech flickered over them and then faded away, and Maglor watched him quizzically. A moment later Maedhros licked his lips and tried again, and the words forced awkwardly from him. 

“Is… is it like with Moryo?” he asked, his eyes wide. “Am I allowed to touch you as well?”

Maedhros looked beseechingly at him, and for a second Maglor foundered, entirely unsure of what such a question denoted. Silence wobbled through the tent, but just as the first glimmers of fear began to bleed through Maedhros’ eyes, Celegorm spun about; a knowing, and slightly incredulous smile curved over his face. 

“Yes, Nelyo,” he said firmly. “Yes, it is exactly like that, if you want it to be.”

Maedhros nodded back at him, and Maglor watched in amazement as resolve solidified in his expression. Clearly there was something he was missing, something had been done of which he was unaware, but if Celegorm knew what he was doing then Maglor was content to follow his lead. 

Celegorm stepped around to the right side of the bed, laying out several strips of gauze and the bowl of _athelas_ infusion, before calmly declaring, “Okay, Nelyo, what we’re going to do is this. It’s going to be mostly the same as normal, but just a little bit different, like what you did with Moryo. Káno is going to sit before you as usual, but this time he’s not going to lift you. When you feel ready, I want _you_ to lift yourself up as far as you can towards him, and only when you can’t go any further then Káno is going to hold you up. And then it will just be as normal, I’m going to take a look at you and make sure that nothing is wrong. Does that sound all right to you?”

“I think so…”

“Good,” Celegorm smiled. “Now Káno is going to sit down, and when you are ready, you slowly push yourself up towards him, and then he will take it from there.” 

Maglor moved into position as suggested and Maedhros looked up at him, indecision wavering in his eyes. But after a short time of deliberation he took a deep breath, and the thin muscles in his stomach tensed. His left hand pushed against the mattress, and with a slight, awkward wriggle he managed to lever himself a few inches clear of the pillows. The muscles in his upper arm trembled with the effort of holding himself there, and gently then Maglor leaned forward, easing his hands around him. To Maglor’s surprise Maedhros barely flinched as his arms enveloped him, and with more ease than ever he allowed himself to be manoeuvred into a more comfortable position against Maglor’s chest.        

“There we go,” Maglor murmured, and buoyed by that success Celegorm proceeded. The wounds upon his back were near fully closed, Celegorm reported, and the ones that remained did not look serious enough to require further sutures. He advised then that for the first time he would not bind them with a poultice, but merely clean them and then set them in the gauze so that the final shreds of skin might close better while exposed to drier conditions.

That done, Celegorm unpicked the knot that secured the sling about Maedhros’ right arm and carefully slid the cloth free. The brace itself was not to be touched for another week at the least, Curufin had warned, to better allow the muscles to realign along its structure, and Celegorm skirted it as best as he was able during the daily dressings of Maedhros’ wrist. Gripping Maedhros’ arm gently by the elbow, Celegorm guided it free of the press of his and Maglor’s bodies, yet for all his caution he could not prevent the flinch of pain that shuddered through Maedhros’ torso as he began to loosen the bindings.

As the bandages peeled away from Maedhros’ forearm, Celegorm examined the skin revealed beneath them. The bruising had faded in its severity as Maedhros’ strength gradually returned, but random blotches of sickly yellow still patterned his forearm, speckled over with flecks of purple and green. Distressed veins still showed beneath his skin, but not nearly so gruesomely as before. Their livid indigo had faded into a dull mauve that smudged away from the epicentre of the trauma.

As the bandages fell away entirely Maedhros gasped into Maglor’s chest, and all the tighter then did Maglor hold him, cradling his head protectively into his breastbone. Maedhros did not have to see this, not yet, and as Celegorm began to gently bathe the fragile skin that veiled his wrist, Maedhros mewled a cry of pain into Maglor’s tunic. His left hand grasped Maglor’s side with enough pressure to bruise as another stroke caused him to jump, and all too clearly could Maglor feel the tremors of pain and shock wobble through his body. As placidly as he could Maglor endured that discomfort, and he whispered words that he hoped might be soothing, or at least distracting, into Maedhros’ ear while Celegorm proceeded as swiftly as he dared. 

Once the site was washed Celegorm smeared a bitter-smelling paste over the skein of flesh at its tip, before stroking it upwards to coat the bruises on Maedhros’ forearm as well. Maedhros writhed as Celegorm gripped his arm anew, but Maglor held him still, and quickly then Celegorm bound his wrist again, with gritted teeth ignoring his brother’s whimpers of pain at the tightening of the cloth bandages. After a few merciless moments Maedhros sagged in Maglor’s arms as the anaesthetic in the salve began to take effect, and Celegorm swiftly fastened his arm back into the sling before asking Maglor to release him.

A wince of discomfort flickered momentarily over Maedhros’ face as Maglor laid him back down, but it soon passed away into calmness, and hazily Maedhros looked up at them.

“How does that feel, Nelyo?” Celegorm enquired as he adjusted the sling, checking that it would not catch upon the buckles of the brace. Maglor frowned as he did it, noting that Celegorm used his left hand.

“Better,” Maedhros breathed. “It… it doesn’t hurt so much now.”

“That’s good to hear,” Celegorm said, and contented with the fit of the sling he leaned back. An amused smile tinged over his lips, and he raised his right hand and wiggled his fingers. Green smears of salve still clung to them from where he had applied it to Maedhros’ arm, and as he made them dance before Maedhros’ eyes, he remarked, “Numb, just like you. Nyériel certainly mixes some potent analgesics, now doesn’t she?” 

Maglor meanwhile had arisen and poured three cups of chamomile tea, two of which he ferried over to his brothers. A spark of eagerness flared in Maedhros’ eyes as he took hold of one, and unbidden he lifted it to his lips, showing more dexterity in his left hand than Maglor had ever seen him display before. Maglor held the other out to Celegorm, who after a slight moment of irksome hesitation held it also with his left, his fingers crooked awkwardly about the cup.

For a while then they sat, Celegorm subtly trying to flex some life back into his fingers as they both coaxed whatever halting conversation they could out of Maedhros. Soon enough he had finished his tea and began to drowse, the after-effects of pain and the mild sedative of chamomile dragging him back down into sleep’s embrace. 

Celegorm packed up his things and departed, scowling down at his numb fingers in a mixture of irritation and grudging admiration for the effectiveness of Nyériel’s salve. Maglor stifled a smirk as he waved Celegorm out, and once he had contented himself that Maedhros was comfortable, he wandered over to the rapidly depleting pile of books and took up the topmost one; a cracked, leather-bound tome telling of the deeds of the spirits in times long ago. For what seemed like hours he read aloud the lays as Maedhros dozed; recounting bold Tornalossë’s trek to the sacred eyries of the Eagles atop the highest peaks of the Pelóri, and the adventures of the leviathan Uin before he consented to bear Ulmo’s mighty chariot, and Ossë’s taming of the sea-wyrm Krivas and his ride upon him unto the Doors of Night in the Uttermost West.    

Eventually a short fanfare of trumpets broke through the smooth lilt of Maglor’s voice, and at the abrupt noise Maedhros blinked back awake, peering over at Maglor in alarm.

“Someone might be coming to visit,” Maglor reassured him, although in truth he was not sure of who might have returned to the camp. The high families came and went as they pleased, and Amras was not due back from his latest hunt into the wilds for another few days at the least. “We shall have to wait and see if it is for us, I suppose.” 

He resumed the telling of Ossë’s tale, and a short while later a knock sounded upon the tent post outside. Maglor bade the newcomer enter, and to his surprise it was indeed Amras who ducked beneath the tent’s flaps. His hair was pulled back into a messy, wind-blown ponytail, splatters of mud were still drying upon the leather of his boots, clear indicators of a ride undertaken in haste, and over the shoulder of his riding jacket a heavy pack was slung.

Sudden concern burst through Maglor’s mind. Since the loss of his twin Amras had sometimes been erratic or careless in his behaviour, as if something vital inside of him had been knocked askew from its balance, and worriedly Maglor looked him over, searching for any sign of injury or hurt that might force his early return. But to his relief Amras seemed sound and composed, and after a slight pause he stepped forward, nodding politely to Maglor in greeting before turning his eyes to Maedhros.   

“Hello, Nelyo,” he smiled, swinging the pack from his shoulder and leaning it against the foot of the bed.

“Hello,” came the shaky reply, as warily Maedhros looked upon his youngest brother.

A long, static pause hovered in the air as Amras straightened. Maglor could see the muscles in Amras’ jaw tremble as truly he beheld the brace clasped about Maedhros’ shoulder, the sling about his arm, the extent of the scars that knotted over the exposed skin of his left arm and chest, and fervently Maglor prayed that Amras would be able to hold himself together. A spasm of some indeterminate emotion crossed his face but with effort Amras thrust it aside, and as casually as he could he finally asked, “How… how are you feeling, Nelyo?” 

For a few painful heartbeats Maedhros pondered the question, until throatily he replied, “Okay. Káno gave me some tea to drink earlier, and Turko put something on my arm, and now it doesn’t hurt so much, I don’t think…” 

The uncertainty in his voice rang shrilly in Amras’ ears. He swallowed hard to clear the lump that seemed to swell in his throat, and finally he croaked, “That’s, um… that’s really good to hear.”

A tired smile hinted at the edges of Maedhros’ lips, and abruptly Amras turned away; his fingers shaking as he reached downwards for his pack. From a cloth-wrapped bundle within it he drew a bright clutch of flowers, and with them replaced the wilting blooms of white _alfirin_ that leaned in the vase upon the chest of drawers. He smoothed out the slightly rumpled petals of the celandine blossoms, and they glowed like golden bursts of sunlight under his fingertips. Proudly they nodded on their stalks, and somehow the sight of them warmed him, they helped to calm the churn of unpleasant emotions that flipped through his stomach. After a few steadying breaths Amras turned back around, and much more confidently he faced his brothers. 

“I went on a really long journey this time, Nelyo,” he began earnestly, seating himself upon the edge of the chest as he talked. “Did Káno tell you that, I wonder? Well, this time I rode far into the south, and then into the east, further than any of our folk have ventured in this age. I did not know what peoples I might meet in those wilds, if any, but what I found there was truly a thing of wonder.

Five days ago, I came upon the borders of a great forest. The dark pines of its heart rolled away down the valleys to airier woodlands; groves of fragrant apple-blossoms and oak trees laden with winking chestnuts were gathered upon its eaves. I rode upon Apeiron, my horse, seeking to find a game-trail that we might follow through the valley and skirt the forest eastwards, and that task led us under the boughs of those bountiful trees. For a while we hunted, but there was little to be found amid the grass except for some strange imprints scattered here and there. Almost animal they could have been, for they were some sort of footprint most certainly, yet they were far bigger, and delved more deeply into the soil than even the heaviest of cattle are wont. Yet for these strange marks we encountered nothing untoward, and so we continued onwards, hoping still to find a clearer path.

And then, with neither herald nor warning, and not even twenty metres to my left, one of the trees started _moving_ , would you believe that! And suddenly all those markings made sense! You remember the tales of the Onodrim, don’t you? The tree-shepherds of Kementári’s folk. I had believed them lost to legends, and yet here one stepped out before me, plain as day! I wish I could tell you, Nelyo, that I was suave and noble in greeting like you would have been, but to be honest I nearly fell off of Apeiron in surprise!” 

“Did you really?” The playful tilt in Maedhros’ voice made Amras’ heart soar. 

“I did,” he replied lightly, and from beside him Maglor stifled a snort of laughter. “It was most… ungallant of me. Well, in the end it was brave Apeiron who saved me from a total loss of dignity, and presently I regained my good composure. I started forward, and – oh, shut it, Káno!”

“S-sorry” Maglor sniggered, his lips twisting as he struggled to contain the sudden mirth that bubbled up within him. Amras sighed dramatically, and shyly Maedhros smiled up at them. Catching his gaze, Amras rolled his eyes in mock exasperation as he saw another bout of repressed laughter quaver through Maglor’s body. 

“As I was _saying,”_ Amras continued, “it was Apeiron who whinnied in greeting, and slowly the Onod came forward. But where I had expected an old, bent rowan or a wise aspen as the tales usually tell, I saw that this one was young. Its limbs were the clean-strung wands of a sapling just come to maturity, its hair fell like waves of cornhusk down its back, and its cheeks were fresh-blushed roses under cool, emerald eyes. I bowed, and it nodded in return to me, and then it spoke. And would you believe, Nelyo, it greeted me in our own language! Many of the words were a bit strangely pronounced, or very archaic in style, a bit… _tree-ish_ , you might say, but it spoke in Quenya, and I replied in kind.

And that was when I realised, it was not an ‘it’, but a _she_! Her voice was strong and pleasant, and young and yet not so. For a time we spoke in friendship, and she told me about her lands into which I had strayed. She told me of her apple-orchards and peach-gardens, and how the youth of her kind would play in the rushes of the riverbanks while their sires kept order in the forests and chased the evil things from beneath the shadowed boughs. In return I told her about us, about the Noldor, and some of the customs of our people long sundered from those who dwell upon the shores, or our wood-kin with whom she was acquainted. I told her why we had returned from Aman, of the peril and wrath that spurred us to reclaim our ancestral homelands. And I told her about you, Nelyo.

The sun was dimming in the west when I took my leave of her forest. She walked with me to the northernmost eaves and there she paused. From the boughs of the overhanging trees she picked a few fruits; bright crabapples and round pears she laid in my hands, and she bade me bring them to you, Nelyo. She said that they might help you.” 

Amras stooped and reached inside his pack, and drew forth another bundle of cloth.

“I feared that they might wither on my journey back, for I had travelled no short distance, but look, they are still fresh!” 

He uncovered the fruits, and to Maglor’s astonishment it was as he said; they were as healthy and round as if they had been plucked from the branch mere minutes before. Their sweet fragrance ebbed through the air, and softly Amras said, “She told me that there was healing in them, in the ancient things of the earth. I do not quite understand what she meant, but she implored me to bring these to you, Nelyo, and here they are. If you want them.”

Maedhros’ eyes seemed to shiver as he looked upon the fruit, and for a long while he was silent. 

“Maybe,” Maglor interjected gently, seeing the worrisome expression clouding over Maedhros’ face. “Maybe after dinner you could have some, if you wanted to, Nelyo? It would be like having dessert.”

Maedhros nodded slowly, but a pall of doubt crept over his features.

“Um, K-káno?” he began brokenly, and with timid eyes he looked up at his brother. “I... I think I am a bit hungry. N-now, I mean. Do you… do you think that I could have some now?”     

Sheer surprise stuck the words of delight and permission within Maglor’s throat. But beneath his arrested response Amras saw Maedhros begin to crumble as that fearful venture went unanswered, and the shy hope that glimmered in his eyes began to topple into panic, into fear. But before any harm could be done, Amras dove in. 

“Of course you can, Nelyo,” he said, and Maglor jerked in surprise at his voice, and a moment later an icy wash of guilt slicked through his innards. 

Under Maedhros’ much-relieved gaze Amras then pulled out a small knife and neatly sliced one of the pears in half. One half he placed back into the cloth and the other he divided up into small slices. Cupping those crescents of fruit in his palm, he lifted them over to Maedhros, his hand extended so that he might pick one. But even as they were offered to him doubt wavered over Maedhros’ face, until Amras prompted, “Go on, take one. They’re for you.” 

Hesitantly Maedhros reached forward, wriggling himself a bit more upright as he did so, and at last he picked up a slice and nibbled at its corner. As his teeth sank into the fruit, juice bubbled up over his lips, and through the coating of sweet, sticky liquid Maedhros smiled. Swallowing something solid seemed to take an effort, but eagerly he turned back for another bite, slurping slightly as an errant droplet of juice dribbled down towards his chin. The joy in his eyes, the pure, innocent grin that curved over his lips as he bit into the pear anew nearly clove Maglor’s heart in two, and he suppressed the slightly maniacal urge to beam over at Amras in utter happiness. But twined within that felicity was sorrow also; that something so devastatingly simple as a piece of fruit could elicit such comfort was just another sore reminder of the torments that he had subjected his brother to. 

Maedhros gulped down the last few bites, and nervously he reached out to Amras for another slice. The shake in his fingers was unmistakable, as if he half expected Amras to suddenly slap his hand away or to snatch from him his prize; but at last his fingers closed around another slice of pear, and he nibbled into it. More slowly he ate this slice, and as he swallowed both of his brothers could hear his teeth chattering slightly together, almost as if he had caught a chill. Patiently they waited for him to finish, and under their gaze his eyes drifted shut; a stark reminder of how truly exhausted his body still was from the trials he had faced. And even though he was calm, all too clearly they could see the glisten of tears that wetted his lower eyelashes.

“It’s all right, Nelyo,” Maglor crooned, and beside him Amras withdrew, wrapping up the spare slices of pear and tucking all of the fruit back into his pack. “It’s all right. Rest for a while now. Pityo’s going to go and make sure that we keep that fruit safe for you, and if it keeps as well as I think that it might, then maybe you can have some more after dinner, all right?”

By the relaxed pattern of Maedhros’ breathing Maglor guessed that he had fallen back to sleep. Amras departed soon after, heading purposefully towards the kitchens, and in the serene quiet that fell Maglor picked up his book of tales once more. 

The vague sounds of the camp outside blurred into a susurrus of swirling noise, and into that lulling thrum of resonance Maglor slipped, as if swept up in the rhythm of some abstract song. Minutes and hours fell apart in those times, nothing existed but the words before his eyes, and the rhythm of Maedhros’ breathing that framed the muffled chatter of the world outside between each rise and fall of his chest. Through that mirage of sound he wandered, until a new noise broke through it, and with a start Maglor realised that Maedhros had spoken.

His eyes were still closed, but his voice was lucid as he asked, “Did Pityo say what her name was? The tree-lady. Did he say?”

“Why do you ask that?” Maglor murmured, and at his tender voice Maedhros’ eyes flickered open. 

“It’s just… in all the stories that you and Finno tell me, all the good people have names. They all have such beautiful names. It helps me, I think… it helps me to remember who is real…” 

Maedhros’ voice trailed off, and the ghost of pain bleached through his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Nelyo,” Maglor whispered, forcing his voice past the tightness that clutched at his throat. “I don’t know. I don’t know what her name was.”

“Does that mean that she wasn’t real, then?”

“No,” Maglor replied slowly. “No, she was real. She was as real as you, or as me. All that it means is that the next time we see Pityo, then we have to ask him what her name was. Do you think you can do that?” 

“I’ll try.” Maedhros’ whisper was barely audible, and as his eyes began to close his voice was little more than a drowsy slur. “It’s just hard… sometimes I… it’s so hard to remember what is real, and what isn’t. Sometimes it’s like being in a dream, even though I know I’m awake, and sometimes it’s not… it’s different… sometimes…”

His speech sloped away as sleep dragged at him anew. Maglor sighed, before returning to his book, resolved to his purpose of keeping watch over his brother as he slept, and comforting him as best as he could while he was awake. Though, he thought bitterly, he was doing an exquisitely poor job of it today.

As Maedhros slept he contented himself to the books and scrolls left lain about, and he alternated between reading them aloud and not, instead humming little tunes of his own devising as his eyes scanned over the tight, spidery handwriting that seemed to be the fashion among the academics of the time.

He flicked disinterestedly through a tome about metallurgy: a subject for which he had little passion, and even lesser aptitude, to his father’s eternal frustration in the years of his youth. Absently he hummed a few bars of dulcet notes, the sweet melody one he had composed long ago under the shady boughs of Kementári’s great _mallorns_. The merry rhapsody flowed through the room, yet as it progressed Maglor gradually became aware of another set of notes weaving amid his own. In tremulous excitement he glanced over at Maedhros, and although his brother still lay passive, Maglor could see the muscles in his throat flex ever so slightly. A shaky little hum emanated from him, underpinning Maglor’s melody as he tried to echo the notes set. With a swell of happiness Maglor continued his tune, and Maedhros strove to match him, and it was only with a concentrated effort of will that Maglor managed to keep himself on key, such was the puissant emotion that squeezed around his windpipe.

For a few amiable minutes they continued until Maedhros’ notes began to stray, his rhythm faltered and stumbled and died, and tears began to shimmer in his eyes.

“I’m sorry…” Maedhros whispered abruptly, and Maglor’s humming ceased as he peered concernedly down at his brother. “I’m so sorry…” 

Bands of pressure seemed to clench around Maglor’s chest, and carefully he leaned forward, pressing himself as close as he dared to Maedhros. Worriedly he searched his brother’s face for any indicator as to what might be wrong, for what on earth he might be _apologising_ for, but his effort was unavailing. 

An anguished expression twisted violently over Maedhros’ face, and in a pitiful, helpless attempt at condolence Maglor murmured, “Hey, hey, Nelyo, don’t cry. Don’t cry now, it’s all right…”

Silvery tears dripped down Maedhros’ cheeks, they seemed to carve furrows through his skin as once more he spluttered, “I’m s-sorry…”

“Hey, Nelyo, come on,” Maglor cajoled, fighting to keep the mounting concern within him contained. “You’re all right, come on now.”

“I c-couldn’t do it,” he gulped, and his breath hitched in an awful, clenching gasp.

“What?” Against every instinct that screamed at him not to pry, Maglor forced himself to prompt his brother onwards. Maybe it would help, he convinced himself desperately. Maybe if this hurt was brought out into the light then it might fade, it might be rinsed of its venom and allowed to heal. “What do you mean, Nelyo?”

“I c-couldn’t do it, Káno. I couldn’t keep it a secret…” The air hissed into his lungs, it scraped over his teeth as his eyes lit up in panic. “I _told_ them, Káno. I t-told them everything…” 

And with that broken admission truly he began to cry, and all too plainly the wound was revealed in its corruption. How long had he nursed that guilt? How long had that self-imposed blame been left to fester, how long had it corroded within him? The thought sickened Maglor to his stomach. But the words kept falling over Maedhros’ lips: in aching, spluttering sobs they came, with such wrenching force that Maglor could almost see their passage shaking through his body. 

“I d-didn’t want to, Káno. I… they, they made me… they… I had to tell them, I had to tell them about us, about where we were, w-what we were doing. I had to tell them to make it stop. To make them leave me alone. But then it wasn’t enough, they… they s-said it wasn’t good enough. They thought I was _lying_. But I wasn’t, _I wasn’t_ , I t-told them the truth and then they took me and they… they did… th-things and…”

Maedhros’ voice crumbled into incoherence, and in paralysed horror Maglor sat next to him. He knew that his brother had been abused, had been tortured, _of course_ he knew; the marks tore at him every time he set eyes upon them, inescapable and accusing. But somehow hearing it, hearing those plaintive, awful words yanked up over his lips made it so much worse, it dug the blades that much deeper.

_You did this to him._

_You left him._

“I t-tried to be brave, Káno,” Maedhros sobbed, jerking Maglor from unpleasant reverie to a reality that bore no comfort. “I t-tried to endure it like you would have wanted me to, like F-father would have wanted me to, I tried to ignore it, b-but I couldn’t, _I couldn’t_ … I t-told them…” 

“It’s okay, Nelyo,” Maglor whispered. The uselessness of his own voice shrieked at him. “It’s okay.” 

“ _I’m s-sorry…”_

“You were so brave, Nelyo,” Maglor breathed, the words clinging to his lips. “You were so terribly brave, and it’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, Nelyo? None of this is your fault. And it’s over now. It’s all over now…” 

Gradually Maedhros’ harsh sobs began to soften, and through red-rimmed eyes he looked miserably down at the blankets. Deep, erratic breaths shook through his chest, but on the whole he calmed, with only a tremulous frown left lingering over his eyebrows as the minutes crawled by. Cautiously Maglor watched him, and into the terrible void of silence that hung between them Maedhros at last whispered, “Why weren’t you there?” 

“What do you mean, Nelyo?” Maglor murmured, but even as the words flew from his lips, chill dismay spilled through his stomach. “Why wasn’t I where?”

“You didn’t come.” Fresh tears glossed in Maedhros’ eyes, and they slid in silent, forlorn rivulets down his cheeks. And with crushing inevitability Maglor sensed what he was going to say; it felt like the air had been smashed out of his lungs, and then the words came crashing down in all their clumsy devastation. 

“I called for you, Káno. I c-called out your name, I screamed it as they… as they…” Maedhros’ breathing quickened, hysterical little sobs bubbled up in his throat. “I called out for you, and I knew you would come, I knew you would come and help me because that’s what you do. You help me when I get into trouble. But over and over again I said your name, I s-said it like a prayer, and then they l-laughed at me, they said you’d left me…

And then you didn’t come, Káno. You didn’t come. You didn’t help me…” 

_This is all your fault._

Horror gouged up Maglor’s throat, and with every ounce of self-control he possessed he fought down the urge to scream, to break something, to grab hold of Maedhros and just never let him go, to break apart before him and beg for his forgiveness, forgiveness which he didn’t deserve, which he craved and abhorred in equal measure. But like graven marble he sat, as numb sorrow and bright, blazing guilt waged their suffocating war within him. Beside him Maedhros cried, and with searing clarity Maglor could hear each click of his throat as he swallowed, each gasp and catch and sniff of his breath as he lay so wretchedly beneath the blankets; so close and yet so dreadfully far away. Yet amid the sobs that rocked through him Maedhros spoke once more, in a tiny, fragile voice he whimpered:

“Were you angry with me, Káno?”

It felt like the world had come undone, it felt like Maglor’s chest would cleave in two from the sheer, seething blame that clawed and hammered and scratched at his ribs, that skewered through his heart. 

“Did – did I do something wrong? Is that why you didn’t come? I didn’t mean to… I d-didn’t mean it…” 

Maedhros dissolved into inconsolable tears once more, and Maglor sat beside him like an injury. 

What could he possibly say? What words in any language of this wide, cruel earth could ever set right such a heinous wrong? What words could take back scars, what syllables could undo humiliation? None, the bitter answer chimed. No apology could ever wash clean that betrayal. 

_You did this to him._

It clung to him, raw and viscous and drooling, no matter how many times he tried to evade it, to ignore it, ever it spewed out its blame. There _was_ no other way, there was _nothing_ Maglor could have done to turn the uncaring tides of fate; but no amount of logic could ever stem that bleeding, gaping hole within him. Ever that wound would rip open and pollute him. It would always be there, an indelible mark of his sin.

In deathly silence then he sat, until Maedhros’ sobs ebbed slowly back into quietude, and fell away into the snuffled rhythms of exhausted, tearful sleep. Carefully then Maglor stood, a strange, piteous desire worming through him. And he knew it was selfish, he knew that it was a betrayal, a breach in everything he pretended to stand for, but in that moment he just didn’t care, and over Maedhros he bent. With such aching tenderness he brushed away the tears that stained his cheeks, feeling the miserable flush of his skin beneath his fingertips. Softly then he kissed him upon the brow, and in the touch of his lips was the effluvia of all those biting, clawing, hurting words; all crushed and warped, made legion and ephemeral and impossible.  

I love you. I hate you.

 _You hurt him._  

I am going to save you. 

 _You broke him._  

Just please hold on. 

 _You came too late._  

 


	10. Niphredil

The weeks rolled onwards, and with them came an arid wind blown from the northeast. Over the distant mountains it swept, dragging great ash-choked clouds in its wake under which clung the rotted stench of brimstone and flame. Vapours coiled about the ground, smoky ephemera congealed in the shadows of every tent, and yellowish fumes fluttered like mocking war-banners in the air before fading from sight, leaving nothing to mark their passing but the reek of sulphur.

Under the pall of clouds that loomed above it, the Fëanorian encampment sweltered. Quakes rumbled through the ground, fissures opened like steaming, gasping wounds scored through the soil as the earth chewed and rent itself in its turmoil. Ash smudged over the distant horizon, and at night an unearthly crimson stain bloodied the clouds as Bauglir’s furnaces exploded into flame and his foundries pounded out their malice. With each day the cool pastures of Mithrim withered; flowers blackened and died on the bud as the very earth became poisoned, and the herdsmen of the Noldor drove their livestock further south to escape the spreading blight. 

The protective ring of Mithrim’s mountains now became a prison, as acrid winds mingled with turbulent, subterranean volcanism and turned the cool natural basin into a furnace. The moderate clothing of clement weathers was shed for light shirts and airy robes by all but the foolhardy, yet that could only do so much to alleviate the discomfort of the sticky, polluted air.

Even the lake to their east brought no respite. A sickly fume hung over its glassy expanse, stifling what snatches of breeze once blew over its surface. Its waters became soured, and at the behest of the council and healers instructions were circulated through the camp to only consume waters of the lake and its tributary streams after many hours of boiling. Ever the whiff of brimstone and smoke lingered in the air; it prickled at the eyes, it clawed at the throat, and yet under that oppressive smog life continued unabated.

For in contrast to the sickened lands about him, or perhaps in pure, ruthless spite of them, Maedhros continued to improve. Under his kin’s watchful attentions the change in him became ever more visible. Day by day he grew physically stronger: the wounds over his back closed entirely, the gauntness of his cheeks and hips began to slowly soften, and the dexterity he displayed in his left hand increased at an astonishing rate. For longer periods of time he would stay awake and lucid, he would wriggle and shift about in the bed as he sought out more comfortable positions to rest in as Fingon read to him. He would re-arrange his pillows himself, or untangle his blankets as Caranthir spent hours describing to him the preferable patterns of needlework when embroidering silks, or telling him of the wealth of gemstones that he and Curufin had begun to unearth at the roots of far-distant mountains.   

Maglor’s greatest triumph came in the delight of offering Maedhros a cup of fresh milk and sharing with him a brief, childish giggle as they saw the white moustaches left clinging to each other’s upper lips. And perhaps his greatest surprise came one evening as he bore into the tent a pot of creamy chicken soup and a few soft slices of bread. For he discovered Maedhros beaming with pride as he guided a needle through a small stitching frame which Caranthir held steady for him, following the simple pattern that his brother had sketched out. At the positively alarming grin transfixed in tandem across Caranthir’s usually glowering features, Maglor blinked in shock.

“Look, Káno!” Maedhros called, with such elation in his voice that Maglor’s heart was sent tumbling. “Look, I did it. I – I could never do it before, but Moryo was showing me how.”

“That’s excellent!” Maglor exclaimed, setting aside his dinner supplies and moving over to the bedside. “Do you think you could show me a few more stitches?”

Maedhros nodded eagerly, and turned himself back to the frame with a fierce, fragile intensity. He completed a few more wobbly running stitches, and both of his brothers smiled proudly down at him before readying things for dinner. 

On such merry days Maglor’s heart was set at ease, and contentedly he joined his brother for the meal. Recently Maedhros had grown far more confident to eat unaided, and his appetite had increased rapaciously; positive signs, both Celegorm and Nyériel had said, of his recovery. Maglor watched as Maedhros drew his skinny legs up beneath the blankets, cradling his bowl of soup within the juncture of his legs and his stomach. With his left hand he prodded a chunk of bread into a vaguely spoon-like shape and dunked it into his soup with such innocent abandon that it made Maglor’s chest ache. Truly, he thought, such days were a blessing.  

For intertwined with the sweet, there was ever the bitter. While in _hröa_ Maedhros was undoubtedly recovering, the _fëa_ followed no such linear patterns. With distressing ease he would fluctuate from hysteria to lucidity, from happiness to utter desolation; sometimes with such violence and abruptness that it was all his guardian could do to grasp his hand, if he so permitted them, and to murmur what words of comfort might have hope of calming such anguish. Yet sometimes even those valiant efforts failed, Amras or Caranthir would walk away ashen-faced and shaking, and the task would fall to Maglor or Fingon to look after him at the very worst of times. They shouldered the burden without resent, and quietly they would sit beside Maedhros as he sobbed, as those tremors of such inconsolable pain and suffering racked through him. In what attempts at comfort they could muster they would softly hold his hand; between each stabbing, hissing breath they would stroke down his hair, at each choke they would whisper whatever soothing things they could think of until at last Maedhros would fall into an empty, exhausted sleep.

Fervently then they hoped that slumber might bring him some relief from the trials of waking, but often their hopes went unanswered. 

Of what ghastly nightmares ripped through his dreams none cared to speculate, and Maedhros would not tell. Often, clenched in their grip, he would cry out in Quenya or some other snarled tongue, or some confused intermingling of the two, but it took no linguist to discern the desperate, pleading tone that stumbled over his lips. Sometimes he would jerk back awake, a scream clotted in his throat, and it would take hours for Maglor or Fingon to calm him, to chase away the terrors of night and pluck from them their claws. But other times he would not awaken; he would just shiver and writhe beneath the thin coverlets in contortions that were almost unbearable to witness.

Stoically they would endure, and into the uncaring shadows Maglor might hum some sweet tune, or Fingon play a lulling melody upon his harp, hoping somehow that they might penetrate the wrack and ruin of Maedhros’ dreams and bring serenity. Sometimes their efforts seemed to have a pacifying result, and sometimes not. But always they would try; they would keep to their hallowed vigils no matter what it took.

If this was the price of their penitence then surely it was still too cheap.    

From what they could determine Maedhros was not troubled greatly by physical pain. At least, pain that he would tell of. While his wrist still remained fragile, each morning Celegorm would bathe it and slake it anew in thick, analgesic salves of arnica, salycin, _athelas_ and lousewort, and clearly this brought relief. But upon any further extent of discomfort Maedhros was mute, or if they could draw some answer from him then ever it sounded unsure or wavering. He’s hiding it, Maglor overheard Curufin hissing to Celegorm one day, the two of them half-concealed behind the drape of the tent’s exterior. 

“He’s hiding it,” Curufin whispered, grabbing Celegorm by the arm and pinning him into place. “He doesn’t want you to know that he’s hurting. But he is, and you need to stop it.”

“I can’t!” Celegorm snarled in reply, and from where he stood Maglor could just make out the look of helpless frustration twisted over his brother’s face. “Unless he tells me where it hurts, and how badly, I _cannot_ safely give him further analgesics, for fear of destroying him. You know this, Curvo. You know the dangers of poppy milk when over-administered, or misjudged in dosage. It is addictive, it is corruptive, and in one so… _damaged_ , it might do far more harm than good, in the end. So unless he will speak to us of pain then I cannot give it to him, and I am not so cruel as to force the answers from him.”

At that Curufin snorted, but the irritation that flashed over his face died away into sage melancholy, and slowly he shook his head. 

“He will not tell you,” he said sadly. “Of that I am certain. What do you think they would do to him in those foul dungeons, should he have admitted to pain? What further miseries would they inflict at such a confession, what evils would they commit as some vile answer?” 

“But it’s different now,” Celegorm protested. “He recognizes us, he knows where he is. Why then would he hide this?”

“These behaviours become ingrained, they are instilled under a master’s hand. How many horses have you trained, or dogs made obedient? This is no different. In fact it is disgustingly similar. Behaviour is repeated, and responses are dealt in kind, until the animal learns its place. By either sugar or the whip,” Curufin grimaced, and in the face of such undeniable truth Celegorm looked away. 

“He will not tell you,” Curufin continued. “These behaviours once taken root do not simply disappear. They must either be broken, or dealt with, whichever to you seems the least cruel. But you cannot leave him in pain, Turko. You cannot. Either you must force the truth from him, or you must make your best guess and have done. This atrocity cannot be left unchecked, even if its victim will not speak directly against it. You need to do something, and you need to do it soon.”

Celegorm muttered something inaudible in reply, and for a moment both brothers were silent. But from where he lingered Maglor could just hear Curufin’s parting reply, and its brute sincerity gnawed him down to the bone.

“We stood aside once, Turko. No more.” 

Of Celegorm’s resolution Maglor was unsure, and he could not quite bring himself to ask. But in Maedhros and Celegorm’s interactions Maglor could detect no strain, indeed Maedhros seemed to rest with more ease than he had before, and Maglor contented himself with that. 

With the turning of the new week, Curufin counseled that the brace upon Maedhros’ shoulder should be for the first time removed. Sufficient time had passed, he said, that the underlying musculature should present clear signs of healing, and if any further problems had surfaced then they should be immediately apparent. Maglor, Celegorm and Nyériel listened carefully to his urgings, and after a long debate Curufin prevailed upon them. If adjustments were necessary, he argued, then they should be made now, and of recent days Maedhros seemed to be emotionally stable enough to handle what might be a distressing notion.

That agreed, at the next sweltering, smoggy noon, both Celegorm and Curufin dove into the tent. Fingon had pulled the bedside chair parallel to the pillows, and from where he and Maedhros sat huddled together over a book, they both looked up in surprise at the unexpected entrance. With noticeable relief both brothers breathed in the fresher indoor air, and Celegorm unloaded an armful of parchment and medical-looking apparatus upon the chest top.     

“Insufferable out there,” Curufin scowled, and both Maedhros and Fingon watched curiously as he shook out his tunic, before sniffing experimentally at its lapel. He blanched as the cloying stench of sulphur lanced through his nostrils, and with a grimace and several inventive curses he turned his head away. 

Celegorm bade his kin a rather more polite greeting, before moving over to the bedside. As he seated himself unobtrusively at the end of the bed, Fingon straightened up from where he had been leaning, and subtly slipped a mark between the pages of the book. 

“How are you feeling today, Nelyo?” Celegorm asked. 

Maedhros’ brow creased as he considered his reply, but finally he said: “All right, I think. My arm doesn’t hurt so much, not since you came earlier.” 

“That’s good,” Celegorm smiled, yet surreptitiously he searched Fingon’s face for any confirmation or denial of Maedhros’ assertion. Finding no disagreement in his cousin’s features Celegorm relaxed, and warmly he enquired: “What is it that Finno has been reading to you, then?” 

A spark of eagerness lit up in Maedhros’ eyes, and with a hint of pride curling in his voice he said: “Some of Elemmírë’s poems. I always liked them before, and Finno said he had a copy… But he wasn’t reading them to me this time. I was reading them to him.”

Fingon nodded encouragingly, and from where he was rummaging about in the bowels of the chest of drawers, even Curufin cracked a smile.

“Well, in that case,” Celegorm grinned, “you shall have to forgive our intrusion all the more. But we do not interrupt you needlessly. It has been some time now since you returned to us, Nelyo, and since that brace was placed upon your shoulder to aid its healing. Curvo now advises us that we should remove it for a little while, to examine your shoulder and make sure that everything is mending properly. Would that be all right with you, if we were to take a look?” 

Worry crept over Maedhros’ features, and his gaze shivered over to Fingon for a moment. Even at his cousin’s supportive nod he hesitated, indecision flickered in his eyes, but finally he said: “I suppose so.”   

“That’s brilliant, Nelyo,” Celegorm replied. “Now, how we were planning to do this is to have you come forward, and sit up fully in the center of the bed for as long as you can manage. That way I can be in front of you and Curvo can sit behind, so both of us will have an immediate knowledge and view if anything is wrong. Does that sound all right?”

“… Yes.”

“What about me?” Fingon asked. “Do you need my help?”

“No, thank you, Finno,” Celegorm said, and despite the awkward, unspoken tension that had lingered between them over the past weeks, Fingon could sense no grudge in his cousin’s voice. “I think it will be best if just Curvo and I examine him, if that is acceptable?”

All three looked towards Maedhros for an answer, and timidly it came. “… If you think so.” 

“Very well,” Fingon sighed. Heavily he rose, placing the book upon the chest top, and slowly he made ready to depart. “I’ll come and see you later then, Nelyo,” he said, lingering at the foot of the bed. “After your brothers have finished.” 

“Okay.” Maedhros’ voice was quiet, forlorn even; and it took all of Fingon’s willpower to force himself to turn around, to walk away. “B-bye, Finno.”

A mournful silence hovered in the air as the tent flaps swung shut in Fingon’s wake, but at the fresh waft of sulphur that seeped in with the draft of air, Curufin coughed. The silence shattered, and abruptly Maedhros switched his attention back to Celegorm, nervously awaiting whatever instructions might come. 

“Right,” Celegorm began, affecting an air of clinical crispness as he looked to his brother. “What I need you to do, Nelyo, is to shift forward towards the middle of the bed as far as you can manage, and there to sit as upright as you can.” 

“Okay.” Concentration steeled in Maedhros’ eyes, and a moment later his left hand pressed down hard into the mattress beneath him. With a jerky wriggle he pried himself free of the pillows, and leaned heavily to his left as he considered how best to proceed. Curufin stepped around to his right side, ready to offer assistance should he be required, but with that movement something fiery ignited in the pit of Maedhros’ stomach. He could do this by himself, he _would_ do this by himself; and with an inelegant shuffle he thrust himself forward, levering himself up with his left arm and using what traction his legs could gain upon the bedclothes to move.

To his mild surprise he found himself sitting a good distance further forward, and an instant later Celegorm’s voice sounded. 

“Easy,” he warned, yet the note of admiration in his tone rang louder than his caution. “Actually… that’s fine just there, if you’re comfortable, Nelyo.” 

Maedhros nodded, and with a slide of his hips shifted his balance, taking more of his weight solidly upon his core and lessening the pressure that was already beginning to whiten the fingertips of his left hand. The sheets caught about his waist, and carefully he peeled them aside, untangling his legs so that they might fold into a more supportive position before him. Yet as he pushed the sheets from him, in shock he stared down at himself, and at the loose cotton trousers that garbed him.   

When had they dressed him? He wondered, for no matter how hard he groped through his splintered memories of recent days, he had no recall of this. A knot of confused, squirming unease began to rise in his chest, but hard he squashed it back down. Káno must have insisted, he told himself. Káno would have wanted him to be comfortable. Even if it meant doing things he didn’t like now, or then, or whenever it happened, it would make it better in the end. Even if it meant letting them touch him, then he should let them. That was what Káno had said all those times, and Moryo was so kind to him before, and Finno was always so patient. So he tried to do what they said, even if sometimes he didn’t want to, or sometimes it hurt, he tried to do what they said. He didn’t want them to be angry with him. He didn’t want to be a disappointment.    

“Nelyo?” Celegorm’s concerned voice punctured the veils of reverie, and with a slightly startled look Maedhros blinked at him. “Curvo’s going to sit behind you now,” Celegorm said carefully, “and then we’re going to slowly take off the brace, all right?” 

“… All right.” Maedhros’ reply took a while in its coming, but at the steadiness of his voice Celegorm breathed a sigh of relief, and he prayed that Maedhros might hold on to perspicuity for a while longer yet. 

Curufin slid into place, seating himself near the rumpled pillows at the head of the bed, in such a position that he could easily observe the entirety of his brother’s bared back. But for all his self-control, he could not truly quell the anger that twisted in his stomach as he beheld the extent of the damage. Barbed whip-lines sprawled over Maedhros’ spine in ugly, raised weals, and between their nauseating lashes ran smaller marks, but no less awful for their delicacy. Dull burns and pale filigrees of tissue splayed and clustered in random patterns of discoloured, nerveless skin and yet even their abhorrent courses were distorted. Scars carved through scars, the new nestled smugly among the old; each one burned out its malice, it shrieked out its suffering. 

With gritted teeth Curufin forced himself to look, with grim purpose he bound himself, and as Celegorm spoke he began to seek out the lines of muscle beneath such tumultuous, broken skin. 

“Now,” Celegorm said, “before we begin properly, Nelyo, you must promise me one thing. You must look me in the eye and promise me; else I fear our efforts here will be in vain. If as we do this, if anything hurts, in your shoulder, in your arm, or anywhere else, then you must tell me, Nelyo. You _must_. Do you understand me?” 

At the sternness in Celegorm’s voice Maedhros paled, and quickly he nodded, his eyes wide and fearful. 

Celegorm’s manner softened, and slowly then he reached forward, unpicking the knot that secured the sling about Maedhros’ arm. With practiced ease he slid it free, and carefully steered his brother’s bandaged wrist to lie safely in his lap, cradled into his bare stomach. Once Celegorm was satisfied with that positioning, he began to unfasten the buckles that ran over Maedhros’ chest and held the brace. The leather straps slowly peeled away, sticking slightly with perspiration as Celegorm worked them all free, and then inch by inch he began to slide the leather sleeve down Maedhros’ arm, before cautiously guiding it off. Holding Maedhros’ arm gently by the elbow so as not to leave him entirely unsupported, Celegorm then unraveled the bandages that wrapped over his shoulder, removing the padded metal rods from their fastenings and laying them aside until eventually Maedhros’ upper torso was exposed. 

For a long moment there was silence as Celegorm and Curufin peered at the new contours of their brother’s shoulder. At first impression his collarbone seemed much more hale, Celegorm thought. It appeared to align far more cleanly at the distal point of his shoulder, the warped fibres of pectoral muscle that had been pulling it out of place seemed greatly reduced in their severity, and by no small measure that lightened Celegorm’s heart. At his request Maedhros allowed him to run his fingers along his clavicle, probing gently at the skin to feel the bone’s integrity. It was not perfect; the fine articulations at its end were lost in a tangle of gristle and gnarled tendons, but its improvement from when first he had beheld it was manifold.

Gingerly his fingers slid over the point of Maedhros’ shoulder, and pressed into his deltoid. The unnatural hollow that had previously cratered it had reduced, but he could still feel a worrisome twist in the muscle, and at that he frowned. With no strain placed upon it he had hoped it might heal more cleanly, but if scar tissues from old, badly-healed injuries had already formed within the muscle, then Celegorm knew there was precious little he could do. 

His lips pursed, and questioningly he looked over at Curufin, who was peering intently at Maedhros’ upper back. 

“Certainly there are signs of recovery,” Curufin reported, squinting as he attempted the difficult task of discerning the play of muscles beneath such extensive scarring. “The trapezoid muscles look far stronger than before, and the irregularities that we saw have disappeared as far as I can detect. This appears then to be lightening the pull on his scapula, allowing it and the acromion to slip forward and rest more naturally against his collarbone. Can you see it from there, Turko? The socket seems tighter, better assembled, wouldn’t you say? His rhomboids… it is hard to tell. The skin is so marred, I worry somewhat that the scars themselves are tugging against his shoulder…” 

Celegorm nodded thoughtfully before looking to Maedhros, and catching his frightened gaze within his own.

“I’m sorry, Nelyo,” he said. “That probably didn’t make much sense to you at all, did it? From what we can see so far, there are some clear signs of improvement. What we would like you to do now is just a few simple motions for us, so that we can better see and feel what is happening, and if there are any problems that we need to solve. Does that sound all right?” 

“Okay.” Maedhros’ voice was quiet, but determination shone in his eyes.

“Right. Firstly, I want you to sit up, as straight as you possibly can. Imagine that there is a piece of string running from the top of your head and up to the ceiling. Let it pull you upright, tense your stomach muscles, and straighten out your torso as much as you can.” 

Maedhros’ abdominals clenched, and with a slight wince of effort he hauled himself upright. Already Celegorm could see the tremors that flitted through his torso, yet another stark reminder of how utterly exhausted his _hröa_ still was, and he resolved to make this quick. 

“Okay, Nelyo, that’s perfect. Now, I want you to take a few deep breaths for me. And as you do that, try to focus upon how the air feels going into your lungs. Does it feel equal on both sides? Or does it feel lopsided, like there is more flowing into one side than the other?” 

Maedhros’ brow crinkled as he concentrated, but after a few seconds he dropped his weight back to his left, his stomach muscles sagging with relief as the tension on them slackened, and his arm bore him up. Curufin leant out a hand to steady him, but Maedhros shrugged him aside, and after a while of silence he looked over at Celegorm. 

“It felt quite… even, I think,” he said. “Maybe there was a little more air on my right side? It felt a bit… looser, but not by a lot.” 

Celegorm nodded, and calmly replied: “That is to be expected, but if you say it is only different by a small measure, then that is good. You were held up by your right hand for so long, Nelyo, that it is clear that the muscles in your ribcage suffered damage as well as those of your shoulder. Upon your right they were hyper-extended and upon the left compressed; and we feared that such an imbalance might impact your breathing. Now it seems that your body is finding its equilibrium once more, and that is positive news, and gives little cause for concern.” 

Dimly Maedhros nodded, and Celegorm continued: “Now, when you are ready, very slowly and carefully, I want you to flex your right arm for me. Lift your wrist up to your shoulder as far as it will comfortably go.”

Maedhros shifted his hips a fraction, but without further word or look he complied, shakily raising his bandaged wrist just short of his shoulder. His biceps flexed sharply under his skin, the thin muscles corded and bunched, yet for their shudder Maedhros completed the movement without issue. Celegorm then had him cradle his arm back to him, and this time rotate it outwards from the elbow, so that at its point of completion his forearm was held perpendicular to his stomach. Maedhros’ teeth gritted as he pivoted through the final few centimeters, but at Celegorm’s swift question he answered that it was stiffness that bothered him, not pain. Celegorm’s eyes narrowed, but he had not the heart to press the issue and neither did Curufin intervene, so he bade Maedhros return then to a more comfortable position. 

Next he asked Maedhros to keep his elbow bent and forearm parallel to his torso, but then to raise his arm up and outwards from his stomach in a soft crescent. Maedhros lifted his arm a few inches from his chest, and both Celegorm and Curufin watched his shoulder and back with rapt attention through this crucial movement. The strain over his upper back was obvious, and as Maedhros tried to lift his arm beyond a narrow acute angle a sudden hiss of pain scraped over his lips. Sweat broke over his spine in shining little beads as he tried to push himself further, coppery strands of hair stuck to his neck as he struggled to hold his position, yet after a brief moment he snatched his arm back into himself. Short, sharp breaths shivered through his lungs, and all to prominently Curufin could see the spasms that coursed through his back as even that simple motion proved a trial. 

Quickly Celegorm asked him to try something different, all too conscious of the glitter of panic that was beginning to unfurl in his eyes. With much greater ease he managed to shift his arm in a planar motion sideways, in a slightly odd maneuver that Celegorm told him was called ‘abduction’. Buoyed by that success, Celegorm then bade him do the opposite, to reach across himself and adduct his shoulder; but as he began to shift his wrist towards his left hip, a small whimper bled from his lips. The muscles in his shoulder shook grievously as he overreached his midline, and hurriedly his brothers stopped him. A look of concern twisted over Celegorm’s face before he could quite contain it, and from over Maedhros’ shoulder Curufin shook his head. But where they expected such gestures to go unnoticed they were undone; and fear burst to life in Maedhros’ eyes.

“No!” he gasped, the tendons in his neck jumping bold under his skin as he twisted, as he tried to wrench his shoulder forward once more. “No, wait! I can do it. I can do it, please, p-please…”

“Nelyo, stop.” Desperately Celegorm strove to keep his voice level, but urgency flashed brighter than caution, and he reached out, taking Maedhros as gently as he could by the upper arm and stilling his movement. 

But at that contact Maedhros jerked violently, and shrilly he gasped, “I can do it! Don’t…” An awful, helpless expression shimmered in his eyes, and Celegorm released him, his hands raised in a soft gesture of surrender. But Maedhros’ breath hitched in his throat; frightened, unseeing tears clung at the corners of his eyes as he whimpered, “Don’t… p-please…”    

“It’s all right, Nelyo,” Celegorm murmured, pushing every shred of sincerity and calm that he could into his voice. “You’re all right. It’s just us, remember? Its Turko and Curvo. We’re not going to harm you, you know that. We’re not going to hurt you. We just need you to be still.” 

A gasp seemed to freeze in Maedhros’ throat, and frantically he blinked back the tears that glossed over his eyes. After a long moment of tremulous silence at last he exhaled, and with that some of the tension seemed to slip from him, and he whispered, “It’s okay… I – I remember. I’m okay…”

The tightness in his voice was suffocating, and Celegorm could see just how hard he was fighting to keep himself calm.

“That’s good,” Celegorm crooned. “That’s really, really good. I know it’s hard, Nelyo. I know this must be confusing for you. But we need to know, and somewhere deep down inside I think you do know, that we’re not going to hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt you. We will not let it happen, not now, not ever; this I swear.” 

“Really?”

“Really.” Curufin’s smooth voice sounded from beyond Maedhros’ shoulder, but a moment later he arose, gliding around to stand beside Celegorm, and to look Maedhros fully in the eye. “Turko may look like a porcelain doll but I assure you, Nelyo, there is more in his head than just empty air. And when he swears something to you, you could not wish for a better oath-keeper. 

We only want what is going to be best for you in the end. I know that must be hard to comprehend at the moment, but it is true, and I hope you will believe me as I say it. We are not going to hurt you; and a part of that means that we cannot allow you to hurt yourself. Do you understand?”

With eyes like bruises Maedhros looked up at them, and in a tiny, quavering motion he shook his head.

“Your shoulder,” Celegorm sighed, “has suffered the most grave injury of its kind that the healers and I have ever seen, Nelyo. You must understand that, for now, and for the future. When Finno brought you back to us, you were unconscious. You had strayed far beyond the realm of dreams, and in that oblivion we were powerless to reach you. So in the absence of your permission we were forced to act, and begin to set right what was wrong.” 

“Is that… is that why I was wearing that thing… that brace? On my shoulder?”

“Yes. It was clear to us that the entirety of your arm was badly damaged, and that we needed to act swiftly to save what we could. So Curvo and I devised that brace, to help align what was pulled askew even while you slept. And today is the first time that it has been removed in all these weeks, so that we can see how things are progressing.”

“Is it bad, then?” Maedhros whispered. Shadows of apprehension moiled over his face, and distantly he looked down at his bandage-swaddled wrist. “I couldn’t move it. I couldn’t do what you asked…” 

“No, Nelyo,” Celegorm replied earnestly, and beside him Curufin nodded in staunch support. “It is not bad at all, and you must not think it so. After a time of stress or immobility, the body becomes very stiff and hard to move. Your arm was forced into an unnatural, uncomfortable position for a very long time, and it has been re-immobilized by us, so it is small wonder that you can only manage very limited movements now. Regaining the flexibility that you have lost will require time, and patience, and perseverance, but it can be done. Of that I am confident.

But for the time being, we cannot allow you to be over-ambitious, or to over-exert yourself. There are membranes inside of you, delicate strands of tendons and fragile ligaments that are only now beginning to heal, and it would not do to tear them apart by accident, do you see?” 

Whether or not Maedhros had fully grasped all that was explained, Celegorm was unsure, but he took heart from the faint nod that followed his question. 

“I just didn’t want you to be angry with me…” Maedhros whispered, and he looked miserably down at his wrist. “Because I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want you to…”

“It’s all right. We’re not going to be angry with you, are we, Curvo?” A flicker of some pained emotion quirked over Curufin’s lips before he could quite prevent it, but a moment later he shook his head. “For what sense would there be in being angry for something you genuinely could not do?”

Maedhros’ eyes widened in horror, and too late Celegorm realized the fallacy in his words. But before either of them could say or do anything truly regrettable, Curufin calmly interjected, “Nelyo, we were thinking about something earlier, something that you might like. Are you listening?” 

Maedhros looked up at him curiously, and Celegorm breathed a sigh of relief as his unfortunate wording was forgotten.

“Well,” Curufin said, “for the next few hours I need to make some modifications to this brace. Its effects so far have been remarkable, and with some small alterations I am sure that it will help you to recover all the more swiftly. During this time then, we were thinking, perhaps you might like to bathe? It has been so uncomfortably hot and smoky, and even this cool tent does not offer a true escape. So if you would like, we can send for a tub and some water, and Káno said to us earlier that he would help you, if you wished.”

For a while Maedhros was silent, until in a small voice he replied, “I think I might like to, if it is all right.”

“It is perfectly all right,” Celegorm grinned. “I shall go and fetch a tub then, and send for some fresh water. And go and retrieve Káno from wherever he is hiding. Probably in some dreadfully dull meeting about the camp’s drainage systems, or whatever torpid subject he was trying to lecture me on the other day. If you’ve seen one culvert, you’ve seen them all!” he declared, before positively bounding out of the tent.

Maedhros stared bemusedly after him, and Curufin sighed in mock exasperation. 

“He’s as bad as that blasted dog of his, don’t you think, Nelyo? Forever bouncing about and disturbing the hard-working souls of the world.” A scoff of laughter bubbled up in Curufin’s throat, and a playful smile curved over his lips as he whispered: “And that’s not even mentioning the _shedding!”_

Curufin chuckled, and shyly Maedhros smiled up at him.

“I don’t mind,” he said. “It’s nice to… to have you all around again.” 

Maedhros’ voice seemed to rip through the air, and the laughter died in Curufin’s throat. A sudden torpor dragged at him, and heavily he sat upon the edge of the bed, an unreadable expression clamped over his face. Awkwardly he smiled, and at last his lips parted in the tentative prelude to speech. Yet everything he wanted to say seemed to hook in his throat, the ghosts of the words he longed to say warred and blistered and died upon his lips. And inexplicably, _infuriatingly_ , for the first galling time in millennia his legendary eloquence failed him; those aching words simply would not come, and to rigid silence he was tethered. At last he rallied, he mustered himself, he wrenched the words up but too late they quivered on his tongue. The moment had passed, its puissance had faded into tender melancholy, and he let those words slip away.

With a broken smile of condolence he looked upon his brother, and in pathetic substitute he croaked at last, “It’s good to have you back too.”

 

* * *

_As usual, I very much hope that you enjoyed this little update, and that the rather technical shoulder movements were not too confusing to visualize!_

_Just a heads up so that you have some warning as to where this fic is going: there are 2 chapters left until we must draw to a close. Well, not_ must _, rather we_ will _draw to a close, seeing as this piece could technically be infinite! And tempting as that is, I just don't have the time._

_So there's a bit of foreknowledge for you, and of course I shall update as quickly as is humanly possible. Until then, farewell. x_

            


	11. Lavender

_Well, this chapter turned out rather longer than expected, but I just couldn't bring myself to split it in two. A small reiteration of topic warnings: **graphic imagery** , **torture** and a little bit of **gore** in this one, so do proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such things. But without further ado, the penultimate chapter! Enjoy._

* * *

 

A moment of delicate silence shivered through the tent until finally Curufin cleared his throat.

“Would it… would it be all right if I were to take a few measurements of your shoulder, Nelyo?” he asked, wilfully ignoring the slightly strangled tone to his voice. “It would help greatly with my modifications.” 

“Okay.”

Maedhros hauled himself fractionally more upright as Curufin took hold of a stick of charcoal and some sheaves of parchment, and carefully moved around to Maedhros’ back. Using his fingers as a measure he jotted down several swift notations of the jut of his brother’s scapula, its angles of articulation with the acromion and the upper line of the rhomboids, and the contours of the muscles surrounding it. 

“Just tip your head forward a fraction, there we go,” Curufin murmured, and quickly then he noted down the extension of the dorsal trapezoids, and examined more closely the shift of Maedhros’ rhomboids to the right of his spine. Maedhros’ head tilted a fraction further forward as he shifted, the mussed ends of his hair parted; and an instant later, fury ignited in Curufin’s stomach.

For striped across the back of Maedhros’ neck was a wide, purpled mark, and with unmistakeable certainty Curufin knew how it got there. Such a thing took force; repetitive, blunt impact, metal slammed time after time into skin until the capillaries burst. They bled their indelible stains into chafed, half-healing skin, birthing abrasions so deep within the flesh that they would never fade away.   

How long had he worn a collar, Curufin wondered coldly. For how long did they have him on a leash?

A tremor jerked through Maedhros’ shoulders, hard enough to shake Curufin from such grim contemplations. Swiftly then he bade Maedhros relax and sit comfortably as he scribbled down a few more notes, all scrawled numbers and obtuse abbreviations. And if his smile looked painful as he crossed back to Maedhros’ front, if his hand clenched a little too tightly about the stick of charcoal and left black smears bruised over his palm then Maedhros made no comment, and for that Curufin was grateful. He wiped free the charcoal from his fingertips and with a heroic amount of self control proceeded to measure the run of Maedhros’ collarbone, peering intently at its muddled junction atop the shoulder socket. Maedhros watched curiously as he wrote, but Curufin’s shorthand was near illegible, let alone comprehensible, and his interest in it soon waned.

Curufin pressed gently into his deltoid, then he lightly slipped his fingers over Maedhros’ upper arm to probe at his triceps and biceps. With what he found Curufin seemed content, and eventually he asked, “Was the brace… comfortable, Nelyo? Insofar as such a thing can be. We took every precaution in its design, but if it caused unnecessary tension or pressure anywhere then you must tell me now so that I might fix it.”  

“No,” Maedhros replied softly. “It was fine.” 

“The straps?” Curufin continued, his fingers brushing over Maedhros’ pectoral muscle and feeling for its anchorage about his clavicle. “They were not abrasive over your chest? They did not dig in too much? We could not see grazes upon your skin, which is good, but only you can be the judge of it.”

“No.” Maedhros’ voice was faint, but Curufin could not hear a lie within it. “They didn’t hurt.”

“All right, then. Well, those are all the measurements that I require, so we had best wait until Turko and Káno arrive back, now shouldn’t we?”

Maedhros nodded, and with a tilt of his hips leaned more heavily to his left again. Upon a fresh sheet of parchment Curufin began a roughly outlined sketch, and despite the awkward angle Maedhros soon peered over at him.

“What are you drawing?”

At the question Curufin paused, but an instant later he twisted about to show Maedhros his diagram. In as simplified a manner as he could he explained the sketch, annotating as he went; outlining where a rod sought to mimic the natural curvature of the collarbone, or where a reinforced curl of leather would apply supportive pressure to a particular muscle which in turn would provide a stable base where tendons might yet heal. Of how much Maedhros actually understood Curufin was unsure, but the expression of timid curiosity upon his brother's face spurred him to persevere. Yet as he spoke on slowly the eagerness slipped from Maedhros, and a pall glazed over his eyes.   

Sensing the downturn of his mood, Curufin swiftly changed tack; seeking to draw Maedhros’ attention back with a far more felicitous anecdote of Huan and Rochallor trying to outrace each other in the fields as they played, both horse and hound pounding across the grasses in merry competition. Yet Maedhros would not be drawn, he seemed to retreat further back into himself, and at such despondency Curufin’s speech faltered.

In weighted silence then they sat, until at last Maedhros whispered, “Why are you doing this, Curvo?”

“What?” 

“For me. This… this brace. My arm. All the effort you’ve put in. All the things you’ve done. W-why…?”

Maedhros stared forlornly down at the mattress, and the hopeless confusion that shone in his eyes rendered Curufin momentarily speechless. But before he could rally himself and mount a response; before he could scoff in mingled incredulousness and horror, before could raise Maedhros’ chin and look him in the eye and tell him that it was because he loved him, _of course_ it was because he loved him, he was his brother and that’s just what brothers _do;_ before that assertion could erupt from his lips, Celegorm came staggering through the tent flaps. 

With an unbecoming groan of effort he set down the heavy cast-iron tub that he had been carrying, laying it a few paces from the bedside before straightening and vigorously shaking out his arms in relief. Mild alarm flared in Maedhros’ eyes at such an unheralded entrance, but vanished was that awful look of before, and for that Curufin was immensely thankful. 

“How fare the culverts?” Curufin then enquired dryly, looking over to where Celegorm was flicking a few specks of dust from the tub’s rim. 

“Fine,” Celegorm replied. “Though the agenda of the day is fencing, apparently. The barricades to the north are suffering with this blight, Corohir was saying. The soil is becoming acidified, and the wooden bases of the stakes are corroding. The alchemists have been charged with deducing an alkaline counter, and already the council seeks for further methods of reinforcing what wood survives. Something you might wish to look into, perhaps?”  

“Mmm,” Curufin mused, drumming his fingers upon his lips. “I shall speak to Corohir of this matter later. For now, more urgent things press.” 

Celegorm then announced that he had set pails of water to heat, and that Maglor should join them forthwith. For a while then he and Curufin reviewed the planned adjustments to the brace, and ever Celegorm maintained a steady, pleasant chatter to Maedhros, who from his earlier gloom seemed to have rebounded to a placid equilibrium. 

Perhaps a quarter of an hour had passed when Maglor arrived. In his arms were folded two thick towels and a few squares of cloth, with a slender vial of viscous liquid balanced precariously atop them. Over his shoulder a drawstring bag was hung, which he set down at the ready beside the towels. He and Celegorm departed then to fetch the water, and soon returned with two large, steaming pails apiece, which they tipped into the tub. Into the waters Maglor poured the vial’s contents, and a moment later the sweet scent of lavender wafted through the air. As Maglor swirled it through the bathwater its scent became richer, and a slight, fond smile pricked at the corners of Maedhros’ lips.  

Celegorm and Curufin then made to leave, with Celegorm imparting strict instruction not to wet the bandages that swaddled Maedhros’ wrist, lest the skin beneath be unkindly disturbed. At such serious counsel Maedhros nodded nervously, but warmly then Celegorm smiled at him. 

“Enjoy your bath, Nelyo,” he said. “We will return in a few hours, once Curvo has finished his modifications. And for my part, I shall guard you most fervently from that marauding hound of mine! Huan looked awfully keen to come and join us as we were carrying the water over, did he not, Káno?” 

“Indeed,” Maglor replied wryly. “Yet for Huan’s enthusiasm, I fear the tub might be rather cramped should we attempt to fit two in there.” 

With a snort of laughter and a roll of the eyes the pair left, and Maglor turned slowly back to Maedhros. 

“Was everything all right?” he asked, his tone carefully kept light enough to mask the true depths of his concern. “With your shoulder?” 

“I think so…” Maedhros answered. “Turko… he – he said that it was okay that it was quite stiff and hard to move. And then Curvo said that the changes he is going to make should help it get better.” 

“Well, that’s good,” Maglor smiled, sidestepping the tub and seating himself upon Maedhros’ left. “Now, swing yourself around here, will you? So you’re facing this way, and your legs are resting over the edge of the bed, like mine.” 

Maedhros extricated himself from the last tangles of the bedclothes, and stiffly he began to twist himself around. Maglor helped to brace his left arm, supporting the fulcrum of the movement, and with an inelegant sort of scramble Maedhros pivoted until he came to rest beside Maglor, his skinny legs curving over the side of the mattress. As his toes touched the carpet beneath him his eyes widened, and his fingers gripped hard into the edge of the mattress as he eyed the bathtub a few paces away. 

“K-káno?” he stammered. “I can’t…”

“That’s all right,” Maglor said soothingly. “That’s what I’m here for. Right, how we’re going to do this is, you’re going to place your left arm up over my back and around my neck, and that’s where we’re going to hold most of your weight. And in turn, my right arm will run over your back to your right hip, and slowly we’re going to get you up, all right?

It’s just like when we were younger, and we’d have to drag Moryo home after he’d had a few too many, do you remember that? I don’t know what Poldórëa used to mix into his liquors, but they did _not_ help to smooth Moryo’s temper! Except this time I hope I won’t have to dodge any errant punches…

But that’s how we’re going to do this, in the same position, more or less. Now, it’s likely that even with my help it’s going to be hard for you to stand, Nelyo. But that’s okay, and I want you to trust me to do all of the hard work, all right?”

Maedhros chewed his lower lip nervously, but a moment later he nodded. Maglor smiled in encouragement, and as delicately as he could he spoke his next request, and he prayed that its reaction would be mild.  

“What I need for you to do first, if it’s okay, is to slip off your trousers as best as you can.”

For one hideous second Maedhros froze, and Maglor’s heart sank. For here was the hurdle, if one were to exist. Rarely now would Maedhros protest his handling if for medical necessity, or other essentials, but somehow this was different. It was far more _intimate_ , and Maglor was excruciatingly aware of the more sinister connotations of such a request, and he only prayed that Maedhros would not be snared by their grasp. But to his colossal relief, after a moment of hesitation Maedhros complied, shakily reaching for the waistband of his trousers and beginning to work them down the sharp slant of his hipbones and over the curvature of his buttocks. Maglor sat passively by, unwilling to interfere, but as the cotton caught between the backs of Maedhros’ thighs and the bedclothes he leaned over, and as gingerly as he could he helped to slide the trousers down Maedhros’ legs.

The soft mewl that quivered from Maedhros’ throat nearly stopped his heart in his chest. Quickly then he guided Maedhros’ trousers free, with savage self-control ignoring all of the hateful little ghosts that danced and jeered before his eyes. For though his mind rallied against it, his heart held no such noble pretences. If Maedhros had been stripped before then it was by rougher hands than his, and to much more violent ends.

In the blood-warm air Maedhros shivered, and he hunched forward to cover himself, his left hand knitted between his legs and his right arm clasped across his torso like a shield. Maglor let him be for a few moments, rolling his sleeves up to the elbows, and after some gentle persuasion at last he helped Maedhros up, and gripping him as tightly as he dared they stood. But for all his care Maedhros swayed in his grasp, his legs and hips yet too weak to bear but a fraction of his weight. Maglor, however, was readied, and he pulled his brother close, Maedhros’ fingers knotting into the front of his tunic as step by halting step Maglor steered him over to the tub. Despite his frailty Maedhros was willing, and keenly he tried to follow Maglor’s movements, and bore as much pressure as he could upon his left arm and chest as Maglor half-lifted him into the tub before lowering him down into the water.  

As the warm water enveloped his back and legs Maedhros gasped, his stomach muscles clenching involuntarily at the unfamiliar sensation. Yet after a few wobbly heartbeats he relaxed, and using his left arm as leverage shifted himself into a more restful position. Shallowly he leaned back against the tub’s warm rim, his legs drawn loosely up before him and his right wrist cradled up into his sternum, leaving the warm, pleasant water to lap at his chest and to pool about the bony islands of his knees. His eyes fluttered shut as he basked, and for a time Maglor just let him lie. 

Minutes flowed by in mellow silence until finally Maedhros shifted, pulling himself more upright, and watching with childish delight as the displacement sent a small wave of water splashing against the tub’s rim. Maglor passed a cloth over and gratefully it was accepted, as Maedhros quickly submerged it into the water and began to clean himself. His movements grew more deft by the day, Maglor thought, and as his brother seemed increasingly more comfortable, softly Maglor ventured, “If you would like privacy, Nelyo, I can go.” 

“No!” Maedhros said, perhaps a little more urgently than he intended to. “No, please… please stay, Káno. I don’t want to be alone.” 

“Of course,” Maglor replied kindly, and at a modest distance he seated himself cross-legged upon the floor. At his reassurance Maedhros visibly relaxed and continued to bathe, whilst in companionable silence Maglor sat opposite him, fiddling with the laces of his boots. But in some perverse reflex that he was powerless to stop ever his eyes would wander over Maedhros’ skin, his gaze would snag upon some gnarled scar or dulled burn. More and more he glanced at the brand that knotted below Maedhros’ left clavicle, an almost serpentine insignia ridged in white scar tissue over his pectoral. And despite every rational part of him that screamed that he did not want to know, some obscene little fragment of his mind wondered at its meaning, at what such a brand might signify.

He wondered how much it must have hurt.   

Maedhros shifted, reaching to wipe the cloth up his shin, and Maglor’s morbid trail of thoughts was thankfully interrupted. But then Maedhros moved again, his knees slid apart as he ran the cloth over his thigh, and with a cold slick of horror Maglor glimpsed the mark that bordered its passage.

A wide, puckered scar groped down Maedhros’ inner thigh, running from the joint of his left knee to disappear beneath the waterline. But even from the few inches of it that were exposed Maglor could see how it pitted into his brother’s leg, as if the muscles beneath it had collapsed in some terrible atrophy. Numbly Maedhros stroked the cloth down it, and at how far up his leg it ran Maglor shuddered to think. A twinge of sorrow plucked at Maedhros’ lips as he drew the cloth over it once more, and slowly the silence between them curdled, it became a thing of poison as a haunted glimmer took to Maedhros’ eyes. His throat clicked audibly as he swallowed, and he inhaled one sharp, sudden breath as he scraped the cloth once more down his leg.  

“What happened, Nelyo?”

Loath though he was to intrude, Maglor simply could not bear the look of such pain that was moiling over his brother’s features. In mounting dismay he watched as Maedhros suddenly leant forward, clutching his knees into himself with his left hand, his knuckles white and bloodless.

“Maybe it will help,” Maglor crooned, leaning forward to lend what earnestness he could to the plea in his voice. “If you tell me, then it won’t have to be a secret anymore. Then maybe it won’t hurt so much. It won’t hurt you on the inside to try and hide from it.” 

Maedhros did not reply, he stared down at the quivering surface of the water with such loss in his eyes that Maglor ached for him. In maudlin quiet Maglor waited, but as the minutes wore on his hope withered. He would not force the issue; if Maedhros did not want to tell him then he would not press. Likely he did not want to remember, Maglor thought sadly. Or perhaps he _could not_ remember. The thought sent a prickle of nausea brushing through Maglor’s stomach. 

Resigned to his brother’s silence Maglor looked away, but he was acutely conscious that Maedhros had not stirred since he had spoken. The cloth floated forgotten in the water, hanging there like a drowned thing.  

“They took me,” Maedhros said abruptly, and at the roughness of his voice Maglor started. Maedhros continued, the words seemed to pour over his lips in an unquenchable, rolling tide, but where Maglor hoped they might bring catharsis Maedhros’ voice rang hollow. Expression bleached into sterility; into eerie, impassive narration, and all the harder did those blunt words skewer through Maglor’s heart.   

“They took me one day, maybe six, seven of them, and they held me down. On this stone table they stripped me, they ripped off my tunic and I think I struggled a bit, I think I cried out, but then one of them slapped me, and then I lay still. They made me naked, and then they pinned me down, on my back. Their hands were on my wrists, on my hips, my thighs and they pulled my legs apart and I just lay there... I just let them.

And maybe I kicked a bit, or I said something, I don’t really remember, but then they laughed at me. One of them touched me, and I – I thought it would just be like… like normal, that they would just do it and then they would let me go. But then one of them pulled out a knife. And they were holding my head, and my arms and my legs and they pulled me wider and I couldn’t move. I couldn’t get away. 

And then they put the knife on me, right up high. And then they pushed it in. And I howled and I bucked and I screamed but... but they kept on laughing, they dragged it down my leg. And they said I deserved it. Because I was dirty. Because I liked it when they touched me. And they dragged the knife in, and I felt my leg part. I could feel it grate off the bone. And I screamed and I cried and I was going to faint, I was so close, but then one of them hit me and I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it.

They made me watch as they peeled me apart. 

I could feel my blood all sticky and wet beneath me, I could taste it in my mouth and then finally they stopped, they took the knife away. But then they grabbed my legs harder, they pulled me apart even more and one of them had a pot and I thought… I thought I knew what they were going to do. And I begged for them to stop, I begged, but they just laughed, they called me… n-names.

They took my leg and they put something on it, where they cut me, and then one of them said some words and I screamed; it burned and it itched but then I felt it stop bleeding. It was still open, but it didn’t bleed. 

They told me they didn’t want to spoil me. They didn’t want to ruin the game. 

Then they pushed me onto the floor, and I tried to stand up, I tried to face them and be brave like I used to be, but I couldn’t, my leg wouldn’t work, it was all twisted and flapped beneath me and then one of them kicked me, and I tried, I tried to move like he wanted me to but I couldn’t do it. And they pushed me, and I tried to crawl away, to stumble like how they wanted but I just wanted to be sick, I wanted to go away from them. But then I didn’t want to be sick. That would just make them do something worse.

And eventually one of them pulled me up, they shoved me against the wall and made me balance there. I couldn’t put any weight on my leg, I couldn’t stand very well but I tried to, I tried to look at them.

And one of them opened the door, he pushed me towards it. And I nearly fell over, my leg, it… I - I nearly was sick then, but I grabbed the door frame and I held myself up and then I heard them counting. From one hundred the numbers were getting lower and lower. But I didn’t know what they wanted. They hadn’t told me what to do, so I just stood there. And one of them picked up a whip, and he touched it, and he smiled at me.

He said it was a new game.

He said it was going to be fun.

And he prodded my leg and I nearly screamed, but I didn’t understand, I just stood there and the numbers kept falling. They kept going down. 

And then he smiled again, but it was different. It was like he was bored of me already.

And then he told me to run…”

The silence that fell was livid. Maedhros clutched his knees all the tighter, ducking his head into the hollow of his body, and Maglor just stared at his upturned shoulders, aghast. A terrible swell of nausea rose in his stomach, and with every ounce of his willpower he smashed it and everything that it heralded aside; he shoved down the awful emotions that seethed and spat within him, the pressure that threatened to crack his ribcage into a thousand bleeding pieces, and even then it would be a poor approximation of the unspeakable, unutterable horror that engulfed him. After what felt like years he staggered back into clarity, and with a vicious, twisting stab he realised that Maedhros was crying. 

And it felt like someone was stamping down on his windpipe as he leaned forward, he knelt up alongside the tub and in what pathetic semblance of sympathy he could give he gently rubbed his brother’s shoulders, with such awful clarity feeling each hitch of his breath as it shook through him.   

“Take it off,” Maedhros whimpered, his voice almost inaudible. His fingernails carved red crescents into the skin of his knee. “Please, Káno…” 

Maglor’s throat closed, in mute horror he looked down at his brother and the words died in his lungs. But suddenly Maedhros straightened, sending the water lurching and Maglor reeling backwards in surprise. With the base of his left palm Maedhros scraped at himself, yanking his hand over the scar’s expanse and leaving a bright abrasion blushing down his thigh. 

“ _Please_ …” he sobbed. His hand was concealed by the water’s depth, but the muscles in his arm contorted violently, and with a twist of dismay Maglor realised what he was trying to do. “Please. Get it off me… I can’t… I can’t have it on me, please…” 

“Nelyo, wait…” 

“No! No, I c-can’t…”

Maedhros swiped his hand down his thigh once more, raking his nails across his skin. Crimson droplets bubbled up over his knee; little red stains seeped through the water, and savagely, blindly, he moved his hand back up, the water beading pink upon his fingertips. 

But this time Maglor moved the quicker. Before Maedhros could thrust his hand back down, Maglor lunged over the tub, catching his brother’s left hand within his right, his fingers slipping in between Maedhros’ to firmly interlock and halt his movement. Maedhros twisted and squirmed, digging the side of the tub into Maglor’s ribs, but Maglor ignored that discomfort, and held his brother as tightly as he dared. Fresh tears welled up in Maedhros’ eyes, and with a strangled sob he finally fell limp, and stared miserably down at the pinkish water pooling between his legs.

At the softening of Maedhros’ mood Maglor loosened his grip upon his hand, but he did not break it entirely, knowing well of the violence with which his brother’s tempers could swing. 

“Can’t you make it go away, Káno?” Maedhros whispered; silent, lonely tears carving fresh furrows down his cheeks.

With eyes full of sorrow Maglor looked down at him, and feeling polluted down to his very bones he murmured, “I can’t. I’m so sorry, Nelyo. If there was any way, if there was anything in this world that I could do, I would do it in a heartbeat. But I can’t. There is nothing that can be done. We have not the lore to re-shape the _hröa_ so, nor medicine that can re-craft flesh. I’m so sorry…”

Maedhros’ breathing rippled through the water like shockwaves. Through tear-stained cheeks he nodded; squeezing his eyes shut as the frantic, near-hysterical motion shook through him. A wordless keen of despair bled from his throat, harsh, choking sobs bubbled up underneath it, and this time Maglor made no attempt to silence him. For what would even be the _point_? What, truly, could fragile words and lame platitudes do when pushed against the weight of years of pain and abuse and helplessness? If Maedhros needed to cry, then let him. Sometimes there was simply nothing left to say. 

But Maglor would not abandon him utterly, and in some small effort of placation he tightened his grip upon Maedhros’ fingers, stroking his thumb in reassuring little caresses up the side of his brother’s hand. After what seemed like a lifetime Maedhros calmed, his head tilted upwards a fraction, and Maglor sought to catch his faltering gaze within his own. 

“Come on, now,” he murmured. “You’re all right. It’s all right.” Maedhros sniffed, and ruefully Maglor smiled down at him, and unplanned the words fell from his lips. “You know, Finno told me something once, and it helped me a lot when I was in a difficult place. Maybe it will help you too.” 

At the subtle question in his tone, Maedhros lifted his head, and with watery eyes he met Maglor’s gaze. 

“He said to me that sometimes we need to be brave. And sometimes it’s a type of brave that doesn’t come from the swing of a sword, or the adrenaline of battle. Sometimes it’s just having the strength to face the day, to pull yourself up out of bed in the mornings and to smile even when it feels like you’re breaking apart inside. Even when it feels like the world is collapsing around you, it’s being brave enough not to let it. It’s being brave enough to hold on even though it seems so much easier to give up, to surrender.”

“ _I’m trying_ , Káno. I’m t-trying. But… but sometimes I can’t… It’s all mixed up in my head and I can’t… I can’t hold on _, I can’t do it anymore_ …” 

“Yes you can,” Maglor said, with vehemence that surprised even himself. “You can hold on, and you will. What has happened to you is an atrocity, but it has happened. It has left its marks, and those cannot be changed or erased, no matter how much we might will them so. But they can be overcome, if you want them to be.” 

With wide, frightened eyes Maedhros stared at him, and sternly Maglor looked back. But after a moment he softened, and he sighed, “But these words are dark as they are momentous, and perhaps they are destined for another time. Come on; if you like, I can help with your shoulders, and maybe even run some water through these ragamuffin locks that you are masquerading as hair, hmm? “   

Wordlessly Maedhros nodded, and Maglor extracted the cloth from the water, re-positioning himself at Maedhros’ back. From there he wiped the shivering beads of sweat from Maedhros’ neck, he brushed delicately over the myriad scars of his shoulder blades in soothing semi-circular strokes. From the drawstring bag nearby he withdrew a small cup, and dipping it into the water proceeded to rinse Maedhros’ hair, wetting down the messy russet strands before massaging the last diluted dregs of lavender oil through them.

As Maglor worked, Maedhros curled himself up even tighter, his knees near drawn up to his chin. And after a long while of melancholy silence, abruptly he whispered, “Maitimo…”

“Hmm?” Maglor scooped up a cupful of water, and shielding Maedhros’ forehead with his hand, he tipped its contents through his hair.

“Maitimo,” Maedhros repeated, a little more clearly. “That was my name, wasn’t it? A long time ago…”

“It is still your name, Nelyo,” Maglor replied, slicking his brother’s hair neatly back behind his ears. “Mother gave it to you when you were young, as she gave name to us all.”

“That cannot be my name.”

“Hey,” Maglor frowned, and concern thrummed in his voice. He shuffled over to Maedhros’ left, sinking into a low kneel to face him fully. “Now why would you say that?”  

“Did she know, Káno?” Maedhros’ voice was exhausted, and all the more horrible for it. “Did she know that this was going to happen to me?”

The thought froze in Maglor’s veins. It splintered through his heart as Maedhros’ voice cracked, as he pleaded, “ _Did she know?_ Was I just – just a _joke_ to her?”

“No,” Maglor replied; suddenly, inexplicably, instinctively sure. “No, Nelyo, that is not true, and I will not stand by and have you think such things. Mother’s foresights were powerful, and strange, but even she could not have foreseen this. Maitimo you were to her, and she named you purely. She named you truly: her smiling little boy, her proud, beautiful eldest son. Maitimo you still are now.”

“B-but I’m not… I’m not beautiful anymore, Káno… I –“ Maedhros gulped down a painful, choking breath, and his voice trembled away into nothingness. 

“You are still beautiful, Nelyo. In all that you are, you are still beautiful.”

But rapidly Maedhros shook his head, his eyes screwed shut.

“I’m not,” he whimpered, “I’m _not_ , Káno. I – I’m not who you think I am…” 

A few strands of wet hair flicked over Maedhros’ cheek as he shook, and softly Maglor reached forward, stilling his movement and tucking those errant locks back behind his ear. At his touch, barely the slightest graze of flesh across flesh Maedhros froze, and with eyes like smudges of despair he looked up.

“It’s all right,” Maglor coaxed, a rueful smile spilling over his lips. “I know who you are. You are still Nelyafinwë. And you are most certainly still Russandol, look at you! It’s a wonder your hair doesn’t outshine the sun. And, did you know, in the language of the peoples who dwell in these lands, you are Maedhros.” 

“Maedhros?” he frowned, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar syllables.

“Yes,” Maglor smiled. “In their language my name Macalaurë derives to Maglor, and in turn yours transposes to Maedhros. A very handsome name, don’t you think?”

“A new name.” 

“Indeed. But for now, unless you wish to turn into a prune and be named accordingly, we had best get you out of the bath, yes?”

With a slightly startled air Maedhros looked down at his hand and the wrinkled skin that puckered over his fingertips.

“Okay,” he replied throatily, and looked to Maglor for aid. Using much the same technique as before Maglor helped him from the bath, then enveloped him into a towel and steered him safely over to the bedside once more. Maedhros cocooned himself within the towel’s folds, sitting quietly upon the edge of the bed as Maglor assisted him in drying what places it troubled him to reach, and finally fluffed a fresh towel through his hair. Gently then they dressed him in a pair of loose, beige trousers, and while he remained comfortable Maglor slipped behind him, kneeling upon the bed to run a comb through his hair.  

For the next few hours they awaited their brothers’ return. Maedhros seemed quite content to rest, and he nestled himself back into the pillows, pulling the light, dishevelled sheets up over him so that they pooled about his stomach. Seating himself in the bedside chair Maglor proceeded to read to him yet more of Elemmírë’s poems; the sweet sonnet of the lovers Taranië and Ediacar, and an ode to Elentári’s starforging; tales of mighty Alcarinquë, the spangled wings of Soronúmë, the netted Remmirath, and countless more besides. Through the dark veils of Menel Maglor’s voice soared, and Maedhros’ eyes closed as he listened; for such was his brother’s lyricism and Elemmírë’s profound word-weaving that the stars burned before his eyes, and the lovers walked hand in hand amid them, picked out in intricate, sonorous threads that hummed throughout the tent. 

Time slipped by in amiable, easy companionship, until at last a knock sounded upon the tent post outside. Maglor’s recitation ceased, Luinil winked and withered and died in Elentári’s shining hands, and Maedhros’ eyes flicked back open as Celegorm ducked through the tent flaps. Curufin was nearly finished with his repairs, he reported, yet his face grew solemn as he turned to Maglor. Urgent word had been sent from the council, he said, regarding matters that required the king’s attention with all possible haste. 

Reluctantly then Maglor departed, entrusting Maedhros to Celegorm’s capable hands. Of late, kingly duties encroached more and more into his time. As Maedhros’ condition improved his attentions were demanded by the entirety of his people, not solely by the one; and Maglor was not so discourteous as to deny them that right. Still he promised to return as swiftly as he was able, rousing a shy little smile from Maedhros’ lips before he slipped out through the tent flaps.   

From the array of pots and bundled herbs scattered atop and throughout the chest of drawers, Celegorm began preparing a thin salve of crushed _athelas,_ lousewort and thyme oil, and Maedhros watched him curiously from the bed. At his glance, Celegorm enthusiastically told him of the properties of many a healing herb commonly used in medicine. This salve would be a relaxant, he explained, to better loosen the stiff muscles over his shoulder before the brace was reapplied, easing discomfort and allowing the joint to become more pliable. Slowly Maedhros nodded, and after a while of silence at last he plucked up his courage, and he gave timid voice to the peculiar question that had been prickling upon his lips since Maglor had left. 

“Um, Turko?” he ventured. “I was wondering if you could tell me something?”

“Of course,” Celegorm beamed, measuring out a drizzle of thyme oil into his mixing bowl. “What is it?”

“It’s just something Káno said. Earlier he… he talked about the… the _sun_? What did he mean?”

For a moment Celegorm paused, unsure of what exactly Maedhros was asking. But from puzzlement at last sprang clarity, and for a brief, weary second Celegorm closed his eyes. Only during Maedhros’ absence had the sun burst into the skies, and most likely he had not heard the names for her radiance in Quenya or in any other tongue, or if he had, then he had not understood them.

“I believe,” Celegorm answered, “that Káno was talking of the great golden orb who rises in the East with the coming of the new day. You have noticed her, I am sure. We name her the sun, Vása, but Anar she is also, and Anor in the tongue of this land.”

“Her? Why do you call it a ‘her’?" 

“In truth, I do not  know the heart of it myself, for these events happened long ere our departure from Aman. But the wise among us preach that the Valar have set into motion a new celestial system, a last vessel of the sacred light of the Trees long slain by Bauglir and Ungweliantë. Those who tended the gardens of Palúrien vow that it is none other than bright Arien who has taken guardianship of the sun, and unveiled in her splendour she steers its steady course through the skies. For always she loved the things that grew, things of light and life and laughter, and held in enmity those who would despoil them. For this reason we refer to the sun as ‘she’, in Arien’s honour.” 

“And the other one? The pale one?”

“They say that it is Tilion, her lover. Long years have passed since we rode together in Aldaron’s hunts, yet even then he spoke of nothing but Arien’s beauty, and at each loose of his silver bow he whispered her name. We believe he was given charge of the last vestige of Silpion, as Arien was sworn to Culúrien. Ever he pursues her across the skies, drawn close and then sundered by the unfathomable skeins of Ilmen. For after the flurry of day must come a time of repose, and ever Tilion seeks to guard the night from those who would do evil under its shadows. For his silver light we name him the moon, Rána the wayward, Isil and Ithil. So as the Trees have passed, still we have light-bringers in this world.”

“Oh.” Maedhros’ gaze dropped into his lap, and his brow furrowed slightly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he murmured. “It’s just… I – I made different names for them, in my head.”

Celegorm sighed, and with a remorseful smile he moved to sit upon the edge of the bed at Maedhros’ right, the bowl of salve balanced in his lap.

“Are there other things, Turko? Are there different names that you use for things here?”

“Some things, yes,” Celegorm replied. “There are new things in these lands that we have named; animals, trees, places. Peoples, even.” 

“Do I have to learn them too?”

“In time, when you are ready.” 

Maedhros’ eyes filled with worry, and he murmured, “I’m not very good at learning things…”     

“What?” Celegorm exclaimed. “Why would you say that, Nelyo? That’s not true at all.”

“That’s what… that’s what _they_ always said,” he whispered, and he would not meet Celegorm’s gaze. “That I didn’t learn. That I was always doing things wrong. And then they would have to punish me. They would… they would do things to me… It would always be _my fault_ …” 

A crimson flush mottled up Celegorm’s neck, and a grimace twisted over his lips as he fought to contain the anger that surged into life within him. 

“I have never heard such _utter nonsense_ in my life,” he growled, his fingers gripping perilously hard about the sides of the bowl. “These things that they have said, Nelyo, they are _vile_ , and they are untrue. Nothing of what you have been through is your fault, _nothing,_ do you hear me? “

Such anguished, pitiful confusion shone in Maedhros’ eyes, and tightly Celegorm reined in the fury that threatened to bolt from him. 

“I know this must be hard to comprehend, Nelyo. I know this must be so, _so_ hard, but you must understand, you must bring yourself to realise. All of these things, every word they said to you, _about_ you; it was a lie.” 

“No,” Maedhros whimpered, “No, no they weren’t… They… they said…”

A note of impending hysteria wavered dangerously in his voice, and as kindly as he could Celegorm cut across him.

“The servants of Bauglir lie with no less guile than their master, and their words are no less venomous. They have told you exactly what they wanted you to believe, Nelyo. Because sometimes with words, you can control people, with far more effectiveness than a whip-master ever could. If you plant an idea, a seed of doubt or despair in someone’s mind, and you nurture it with lies, or threats, or coercions then it might just take root, it might grow into fruition. Sometimes then the person will believe what you say. And then you hold them by a noose, ready to strangle them should they ever turn around to bite you. 

They wanted you to think that you were helpless, Nelyo. They wanted you to think all of these horrible things; they wanted to make you not be _you_ anymore, so that they could feel like the victors. All of these things that they have said, they are _lies._ But they wanted you to believe them so utterly, so entirely, that maybe then they would turn into truths.”

A long silence hovered in the air, until finally Maedhros whispered, “I think I did believe them… For a little bit…”

“And what do you believe now?”

Through red-rimmed eyes Maedhros looked at his brother, and his voice crumbled as he whispered, “ _I don’t know…”_

“Hey,” Celegorm murmured, “hey, it’s all right. That’s what we’re here for, me and Káno and the others. To help you find your way back into this world, to help you find yourself again.

But speaking of finding things, did Káno tell you? Though many new things we have discovered, chief marvel among them is our kin long sundered, and the language that they speak."

“A l-language?" 

“Yes. Our brethren name themselves Sindar, in part, though they themselves are fragmented, and not all hold allegiance to that title. But Sindarin is the common tongue in these lands. It is not so different from Quenya; all our tongues have stemmed from Aldaron’s words to our ancestors, yet the years have shaped it to be distinct in form and style. To aid our dealings with our kin, we have all been learning this new language, and many of us have achieved its mastery. Perhaps now, as your strength recovers, you might wish to know it also, as it is fast becoming the dominant tongue in these parts.”

A wavering frown rumpled Maedhros’ brows for a moment, but hesitantly he nodded. With his left hand he rubbed at his eyes, before he blinked resolvedly up at Celegorm. 

“Excellent,” Celegorm smiled. “You will enjoy the challenge, I think, and certainly it will keep you occupied for a while. In spoken form it is a very beautiful language, full of song and gaiety. And written in Father’s _tengwar_ it is striking indeed.” 

“Written?” Maedhros’ eyes widened, and he bit his lip as he glanced down at his bandaged wrist. “But…” 

“At birth, we are graced with more than one hand, are we not, Nelyo?” 

“Oh.” Maedhros’ gaze switched to his left hand, and almost experimentally he flexed his fingers. “But how am I supposed to…” 

“You must learn,” Celegorm replied simply. At the wobble that passed over Maedhros’ lips he winced, and hastily added, “Rather, you must _teach_ yourself to write with your left hand, as you will come to take up the sword again in due time. But I do not think that you will be entirely unaided in this venture.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Are you forgetting so easily?” Celegorm said, a playful tilt to his voice. “Though both our parents were right handed, grandfather Mahtan wielded his hammer with his left. Seven sons our mother bore, yet only once more in her lineage has that trait emerged.”

Maedhros squinted as he groped through slippery, unsure memories, trying desperately to find the solution that Celegorm intimated. In a flash of clarity the answer eventually came, and Maedhros exclaimed, “Curvo!” 

“Curvo,” Celegorm nodded, and arched his eyebrow mischievously.

Suddenly a knock sounded at the post outside, and Celegorm inhaled to answer it. But mid-breath he paused, instead looking over at Maedhros, the prompt shining in his eyes. With a start of excitement Maedhros pulled himself a little more upright, and he called, “C-come in!” 

Curufin strode through the tent flaps, a wooden box held casually under one arm, and at his entrance Celegorm grinned. 

“Ah,” he laughed. “Speak his name and he shall appear!” 

Curufin’s eyes narrowed in bemusement, and questioningly he looked over at his brothers. But at the wobbly smile that had lit up Maedhros’ face he paused dramatically, sensing the unexpected note of merriment within the air. Smoothly he set the box down atop the chest, before turning upon his heel and folding himself into an elegant bow. With a debonair flourish of his fingers he completed the motion, and from his bent position his head cocked up to catch Maedhros’ eye. 

“How might I be of service, my most noble lords?” he asked coyly, an enticing grin spreading over his face. At the little chuckle of laughter that tumbled from Maedhros’ throat, gladness spiralled up through him, and hard he fought to keep the suave veneer affixed across his face. With no less grandiose a gesture he straightened himself back up, and looked over at his brothers expectantly. 

“The time has come,” Celegorm began, “that we must set about teaching Nelyo the lore of these lands, and of the current affairs of our people. And while he still rests, there is no better time for the undertaking. The task of writing yet lies before him, and the matter of linguistics. And we supposed that you would be the perfect person from whom to seek advice about things left-handed.”

“Indeed I am,” Curufin smiled, “and I would be very pleased to help you, Nelyo, if you will have me.” 

Maedhros nodded eagerly, and Curufin stepped aside, lifting the lid off the box.

“Very well,” he said, “but that is a matter for the morrow. For now, this brace must be re-fitted, if that is all right?” 

With only the slightest flutter of hesitation Maedhros gave his permission. Tenderly then Celegorm smeared the salve over the entirety of his shoulder, ensuring that the distal point of his clavicle and the muscles over his back were coated thickly. From there Curufin assisted him in fitting the brace as it was before: first binding Maedhros’ shoulder into position, then setting the padded rods along his clavicle and upper arm as a scaffold and securing them. From there the reinforced leather sleeve was shrugged atop it, and fastened safely around his chest, and with some additional straps buckled around his upper arm.   

“There now,” Curufin said, stepping back to scrutinize his handiwork. “How does that feel?” 

“All right, I think.” Maedhros plucked at the straps running over his chest, wriggling them so that they would not chafe. Curufin fiddled with the slope of the sleeve upon his arm, and once all were finally satisfied with the fit, Celegorm stepped forward and placed Maedhros’ lower arm into its sling once more, completing the immobilization of his shoulder. Stiffly then Maedhros sank back into the pillows, with a subdued air eyeing the complex array of leather and cloth that bound him once more. 

“How long do I have to wear it for?”

“Another two weeks,” Curufin replied, “if it is not too bothersome. Then we will repeat the exercises that you performed earlier and see, I am sure, some marked improvement.” 

A worried glimmer crept then into Maedhros’ eyes, and he murmured, “But what if it doesn’t improve? What do I do then?”

Curufin’s face grew strange, a wince quirked over his lips, and he turned aside. But from the foot of the bed Celegorm took up the conversation, and after but the slightest, awkward pause he quickly said, “All in good time, Nelyo. There is no use fretting about what might happen, or worrying over the possibilities. I have hope that Curvo’s brace will help in time, and from there, and _only_ from there may we assess how best to proceed.”

As reassuringly as he could Celegorm smiled, and Maedhros nodded up at him before suddenly a yawn broke over his face. He sank a little lower into the pillows as weariness clutched at him, and little wonder with the rigours of the day, Celegorm thought. Sensing then the ebb of his mood Curufin collected up his things and departed, seeking out Fingon within the smog-choked confines of the encampment to recall him to Maedhros’ side.

In the peaceful silence that fell, Celegorm watched as Maedhros’ eyes slowly drifted shut. Yet for his serenity, a faint expression of worry still clung to his features. And after long, crawling minutes, a whisper flitted over his lips; his eyes half-opened to look blearily up at Celegorm. 

“Will it be like normal then?” he breathed. “When… when the brace comes off? Will I be okay?”

For a brief instant Celegorm’s eyes closed, his fingers gripped hard about the edge of the chest where he leant, as all the things he tried so hard to hide, to _ignore_ , came smashing across his consciousness.

For truly, he did not know. 

Curufin was confident of his design’s efficacy, and where he was given to pride, in such grave circumstances it would be rare even for him to stray into outright arrogance. That in itself was a relief of sorts, but despite Curufin’s reassurances, and despite the smiles and platitudes that Celegorm wore like armour, beneath it he held his reservations.

Muscles may heal, bones might be re-aligned, but with the membranous tissues so integral to them there were no such guarantees. Maedhros’ tendons lay in ruins, and the ligaments were scarcely better, and all too well Celegorm knew how difficult it was to persuade such fickle tissues to heal. His brother’s shoulder was so warped, it had been forced too awry for too long, and truly he was unsure of what results their efforts would yield in the end. But he couldn’t tell Maedhros that, he couldn’t dash what tenuous hopes his brother held, he just _couldn’t._ That would be one cruelty too many. 

And though the hypocrisy of it galled him; it boiled with rancorous, hateful bile up his throat at last he turned, a stiff smile plastered over his face. 

He looked upon his brother, and he lied. 

“Yes, Nelyo. You are going to be okay.”  

 


	12. Athelas

A sharp wind blew from the south, shredding through the grim banks of cloud that for weeks had loured upon the horizon. The sulphurous miasma that clung bitterly to the air slowly dissipated, yellowish wisps of smoke were torn into nothingness by the change of winds, and the limp banners of the Fëanorian encampment streamed out proudly once more. An ominous pall still brooded beyond the eastern mountains; by night the bellies of the clouds were scratched by streaks of vivid magenta, or set alight in hues of sickly maroon. Fissures cracked at random through the earth, though with less frequency and fury than before; where fiery gouts of magma might have spewed now only vaporous smears of steam drifted, and slowly the Noldor’s withered fields were blanketed in a shroud of ever-present mist.

Though some praised the change in climate and respite in temperatures, more still reviled them. Ever the mist felt clammy and slick upon the skin; greasy rain fell in reluctant, spluttering bursts from the grey slurry of the skies overhead. The cloying tang of metal scented in the air, its acrid reek becoming ever more pervasive, and scarce better than the sulphur which had preceded it. Where rainwater gathered enough to puddle its meniscus was slimed in an oily residue; whorls of a multicoloured sheen moiled in bilious clouds across every surface, and left a foul tinge upon the skin when touched.  

But for the oppression of the weather, life continued with all the vivacity that it could muster. Maedhros continued to improve, so it seemed. In stealthy increments both flesh and muscle began to gather back to him, and he expressed a keen interest in regaining his mobility, though that as yet proved a struggle. Slowly the frantic passion for that endeavour faded, and he seemed more apt to follow Celegorm’s advice of coming to such things gradually, though what truly he felt about it, if anything, he would not say. And if in the latter days he seemed quieter than usual, or just a fraction more subdued, then his brothers did not question it, thinking it only another fluctuation in mood to which he was so understandably prone.

True to their word, they began the task of seeing Maedhros write, and in conjunction teaching him the basics of Sindarin. Stacks of quills and slightly rain-spotted parchment were brought to the tent, and Curufin spent the better part of three days showing Maedhros the intricacies of writing left-handed, from the trimming of his quill nibs into a more practical slant to the correct writing grip.   

“Like this, see,” Curufin explained, holding the quill in loose demonstration, the shaft braced into his hand by his thumb and the barrel resting into a well-worn groove in the side of his middle finger. “Copy me.”

Maedhros juggled his quill uncertainly in his fingers, and with Curufin’s delicate adjustments eventually found the positioning.

“Now,” Curufin continued, “that’s quite a relaxed hold you have there, so when you want to put pressure upon the nib to write, be sure to slide your thumb upwards over your index finger to steady it. Like this.”

Curufin showed him, and Maedhros followed, flexing and loosening his fingers into the unfamiliar grip.

“Can – can I try it now?”

“Of course.”

Maedhros wriggled into a more upright sitting position, the pillows braced behind his back. His right arm was strapped tightly into his chest by the brace, and he kept it well clear of the parchment that Curufin passed over, the page pinned to a thin wooden board for steadiness. Balancing it against the shallow slope of his thighs, Maedhros dipped his quill into the offered pot of ink, tapping the barrel lightly against the glass to dislodge any excess droplets. Hesitation flickered across his face as he turned back to the parchment, as he adjusted his hand and wrist into the position that Curufin had showed him, but at last he pressed the wetted nib to the page. 

In a childlike, wobbly hand he lettered his name, _Nelyafinwë_ , the stems of his _tengwar_ glancing giddily off to the right. With fierce concentration he completed the final flourishes, stroking the vowels in slightly blotched marks about the consonants. He leaned back to appraise his work, yet as he did so his hand accidentally shifted to the right, the movement smearing a ragged gloss of ink across his writing and near obscuring some of the letters. Black smudges clouded up the side of his hand and little finger, the quill hung listlessly in his grip, and in dull surprise Maedhros stared down at the parchment.   

Beside him, Curufin winced. Already the rehearsed words of reassurance were flicking through his mind, he poised himself to quell the inevitable reaction, but as the taut seconds passed he became excruciatingly aware only of Maedhros’ _stillness_. His brother barely seemed to breathe. He just stared blankly down at the page before him, and for all Curufin’s subtleties he could not read the expression that was caught across his face. And that, more than anything else, sent the first shiver of disquiet prickling through his stomach. 

“I smudged it…” 

Maedhros’ whisper cracked through the air, at once jarring and so terribly soft. An uncomfortable silence hung between them for a moment, until at last Curufin said, “That’s all right. It – it happens to the best of us, you know. Here, try it again. And this time, when you’ve written your name, hold your wrist a bit more crooked, a bit more upright, so that you avoid brushing over your work. Like this, yes?” 

For an awful moment Maedhros did not move. His gaze slid impassively through Curufin’s outstretched arm. But with what looked like a considerable effort of will at last he focused, he re-gripped the quill and aligned his arm in bony mimicry of Curufin’s, and wrote out his name once more. His handwriting was little better, though Curufin assured him that with time and practise it would be indistinguishable from those come naturally to left-handedness, but he avoided smearing his letters, which brought a faint smile to his lips. 

For a while then they practised some simple writing exercises, running through the tables of the _tengwar_ and _tehtar_ in printed blocks, and eventually Curufin had Maedhros write out the names of his brothers and kin in full. In clumsy hand the letters shone wetly upon the parchment, but for their inelegance they were more than legible, and proudly Curufin smiled down at him. But Maedhros barely responded, a twinge of merriment touched the corners of his lips and then vanished, and he would not meet Curufin’s gaze.   

“I know it is tedious,” Curufin sighed, beginning to pack away the writing apparatus into the chest of drawers. “I know it must be boring for you, but you have found the grip well, and –“

“It’s not boring.”

At the bluntness of Maedhros’ voice Curufin blinked in surprise. 

“… All right, then,” he said carefully, and a twinge of concern prodded through him. “I meant no offense… You know, I do believe that Pityo is going to keep you company for a while this afternoon. Turko has asked him to explain to you more of these lands: the geography, the geology, the dwellings of our woodland kin. And I daresay that he will tell you more than a few ribald stories of his hunts alongside them. Perhaps that will be more to your liking, do you think?” 

“Maybe…”   

As the days rolled on, together Maedhros and Amras pored over the freshly-drawn maps of Beleriand. From the Falathrim’s coasts to the furthest east that their scouts had yet ventured they looked, with Amras pointing out interesting facets of geology as Maedhros familiarized himself with the place-names; a series of jewel-studded caves to the south, or the twisted, hollow tubes of blackened lava that wound like fossilized serpents at the feet of the Echoriath, remnants of the ancient turmoils of the world when it was but fledgling in youth. To the far east lay winding rivers across clear green pastures, lonely hills reared their crowns from the windswept bracken, bleak moors were dappled by purpled heather in the north-eastern realms where none yet dwelt, and such desolate country was denoted upon their maps only by vague game trails through the heaths.   

For the most part Maedhros would listen attentively, he might ask a question or two about the flora in a particular forest, or whose lands a river bordered upon, but with increasing frequency his focus would drift. As Amras spoke, his eyes would become glazed and empty, and all gentle entreaties to draw his attention back would yield no effect. At such times Amras would simply wait: he could not bring himself to forcefully intervene in his brother’s moods. But as the week turned Maedhros would lapse for longer periods of time, not shorter, and that was more than enough to send worry jolting through Amras’ heart. Hard was the admittance, but harder still was the plea of ignorance, and all too well Amras knew it. 

How many years had it been? He had stopped counting the years long ago. That night; the night of flames and laughter and screaming, Telyo was always _screaming_ as the flames leapt skywards, as he was devoured. And after the agony, after bright adrenaline and rage dimmed out into darkness then there was nothing. His brothers spoke to him but he couldn’t hear, his father slapped him clean across the face and he couldn’t feel, everything became grey and numb and pointless. It seemed so much easier to just give in, to succumb to that hollowness and surrender. But somehow he didn’t, from some inexplicable, unknown part of him he found the strength to keep going. He was whole enough then; sound in _hröa_ and though ruptured in _fëa_ he was not yet broken, he had will enough to master himself and endure. 

In the cool air of the tent, the rain pattering down outside, Amras looked over to Maedhros and wondered how much strength he had left to give. 

With time Maedhros’ penmanship grew more adept, and Fingon and Maglor would spend hours tutoring him in the basics of Sindarin. Swiftly his competence with the language increased, and he would run through countless sheaves of parchment writing down the words that he had learned that day in the Beleriandic mode of _tengwar_ that was common course in lands. But for his ability, and though his kin praised him highly for his efforts, skill never quite blossomed into enthusiasm. With increasing and worrying regularity Maedhros would oscillate between interest and distance, and from that distance even Fingon’s soft humour and kind words would struggle to draw him back. 

He would copy out pages of names or long lists of words, and then be strangely unable to tell of what things he had written. Or fervidly he would write out lines and lines of script, before with slow, savage purpose slashing the quill through each one, once so hard that the nib snapped entirely, and black trails of ink were left drooling from deep scratches engraved into the hardwood board below. More and more he withdrew from them; Caranthir’s invitations to help him embroider a handsome star upon a bolt of cloth went unanswered, Celegorm’s jests died in the chasms of sombre silence that followed them, and even at Huan’s most beseeching whine Maedhros barely moved his hand to pat him.

There was no grandiose act of lamentation; there were no such dramatics. More it seemed a spill of some vague, ephemeral entropy, as if some tiny, vital thing within him had come loose from its moorings and floated adrift, and for its loss he was changed. Day by day he slipped further away, and helpless his kin were to stop it. Physically, Celegorm stressed, he was recovering well; each time the bandages about his wrist were changed the skin below seemed healthier, and the bruising had all but disappeared from his forearm. No trace of infection permeated his veins: for all superficial purposes he was as well as could be expected, but even that glad news was met with silence. Daily they tended to him, and blandly Maedhros would watch, and never a word would slip over his lips of what so clearly troubled him.      

Curufin’s prescribed weeks of immobility for Maedhros’ shoulder passed, and tenderly he and Celegorm began their investigations anew. Maedhros was pliant in their hands, and to their delight, beneath the layers of leather and bandages they found an immense improvement. Curufin’s modifications had exceeded in their efficacy even his own expectations, and inwardly Celegorm queried the necessity of his earlier doubts. Still the joint was not perfect, it would require external support for a long while yet; but the grip of the brace had provided stability enough for several vital tendons to begin their recovery, and his clavicle fitted far more neatly atop the socket than before. But despite their smiles and their encouragements Maedhros seemed unmoved. He followed their directions and performed the movements asked of him to much greater success than previously achieved, but it was with such an abject dispassion that was grievous to behold, and suddenly Celegorm found himself holding back tears.

 _Why_ was Maedhros doing this, he wanted to scream. For one wild moment he wanted to grab him, shake him, hurt him; just do something to shatter this melancholic veneer, to smash it apart and take hold of what was left of his brother and drag it kicking and struggling back into the light, to put it back to where it belonged. _Why was he doing this?_ Why now? After all of this time, he had come so far; they had nursed him back from the very brink of death and at this uncertain hurdle he stumbled. It wasn’t fair. Celegorm knew it was childish, he knew it was petulant and sulky and hypocritical enough to burn but he wanted to scream: it wasn’t _fair_ of Maedhros to do this. He didn’t _get_ to do this, not now, not after all that he had come through already. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  

With every ounce of self-control he possessed Celegorm bit back that vitriol. For though on the surface that discord bubbled, far beneath it clarity rang as pure and as still as glass. Instinctively he knew; he had seen it in the eyes of the broken-legged deer trapped before the wolf, he had heard it in the plaintive cheeps of an exhausted baby bird tumbled from the nest, he could see it in the pallor of Maedhros’ cheeks.

He was giving up.

For if the days brought hollowness, then the nights brought violence. Nightmares were no strangers to the guttering candlelight, and both Maglor and Fingon had become quite adept in dealing with their aftermath, but of late Maedhros' dreams seemed to have redoubled their ferocity. He would twitch and writhe in such aching contortions that it was all his guardian could do to brush the tousled hair back from his face, or to stroke away the beads of sweat that drenched him. More often than not he would cry out in some garbled, mongrel tongue, and they would hold his hand and whisper what words of comfort they could in reply, hoping somehow that their voices might pierce through the treacherous veils of dreams and bring peace. But over and over again they failed, Maedhros would lurch back into wakefulness with a scream upon his lips, scrabbling backwards into the pillows to ward off what terrors pursued him. Maglor’s soft songs no longer brought solace, Fingon’s steady poesies gave no placation; and with grim, awful resolve then they would just hold him as he sobbed, as he shuddered and cringed in their embraces until at the utmost end of exhaustion blank oblivion might claim him for some few, fleeting hours.    

As the days wore on that exhaustion began to tell. A haunted glimmer took to his gaze that would no longer fade, if a smile could be coaxed from his lips then it was betrayed by the tremble behind it, by the too-tight clench of his jaw, by the swollen, reddened rims of his eyes that sank into sockets like bruises. Something festered within him; some wound of the _fëa_ buried down so deep that their combined efforts could not expunge it, and of it he would not, or could not tell.

Piece by horrific piece the words were yanked up over his lips, in retching, gulping tears or in deathly calm; hints of tortures so foul that even Curufin blanched, of whips, of claws, of humiliations. Yet in each confession hauled messy and bloody and drooling from him to pool in the air between them, there seemed to be no healing. The malaise yet spewed out its corruption; Maedhros would lapse into maudlin silence or inconsolable tears, with such bitter puissance that there was simply nothing left to do, no word that could be said, no action to be performed that could raise him from such misery.  

His kin did what they thought best to aid him. They held to their appointed tasks, and each day their concern pulsed a little bit brighter. Maedhros would not shrink from them, but neither would he come; to their proximity he was largely impassive. He co-operated with their wishes, be they of medical necessity or of some valiant effort to engage him in storytelling or needlework or academics, but all passion seemed bleached from him. There was nothing left behind his eyes. 

Food remained the one thing that might draw from him a facet of interest. At the hearty soups they would procure for him, spiced with some exotic herb traded with their kinsmen to the south, or stirred through with tender chunks of venison or quail that Celegorm might hunt, then for a while normalcy would be reasserted. With something approaching enthusiasm Maedhros would eat, and in doing so might be drawn into halting conversation. But to their horror, little by little he began to spurn their efforts; bowls of soup went half finished, he would pick half-heartedly at a crust of bread and crumble it through his fingers, and no amount of cajoling or encouragement from them could persuade him to eat. The gauntness of his cheeks began to sharpen once more, what healthy flush remained to his skin faded, as despite the increasingly desperate imploring of his kin Maedhros would not respond.

“ _Please,_ Nelyo,” Maglor murmured from the bedside chair. A bowl of stew sat untouched between them, steaming gently upon the edge of the mattress. Maedhros sat listlessly against the pillows, his face half turned away, and in the shivering candlelight shadows danced beneath his eyes. Maglor sighed, of late Maedhros barely even acknowledged him. But still he had to try, and he only hoped that the pathetic note of pleading in his voice might stir his brother to humour him. “You must eat, even if it’s only a little bit. Please?”

“I’m not hungry.” Maedhros’ lips barely seemed to move, his whisper crawled like a wraith over them.

“Nelyo!” Frustration cramped through Maglor’s stomach, and for one forceful moment his voice sharpened. At his exclamation Maedhros started, a ragged little whimper bled from his throat, and with horrid clarity Maglor could see the distress breaking in his eyes. With a pained sigh Maglor swallowed, he passed a wearied hand over his face, and in as conciliatory a manner as he could he murmured, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to be harsh. But won’t you do this for me? Please? It will help. It will make you feel better, I promise.” 

“I don’t want any.” 

Desperately Maglor strove to keep his voice level, and tightly he plead, “Come on, now. This is foolish. What purpose can this refusal serve, hmm? You must eat, Nelyo. You must, and you will enjoy it like you have before.” 

“I’m not hungry.”

“Nelyo…”

“Just leave me alone!” The shrill edge of hysteria blared in Maedhros’ voice, and with a violent jerk he twisted himself away. His braced shoulder slammed back into the pillows as he moved, but with a wordless whine of pain he straightened into a shallow sitting position once more, wincing as his shoulder flexed back into a more comfortable stance. For a while then he just sat, quiet and forlorn, and Maglor attempted to rally himself to try again. Maedhros had to eat, he _had_ to, but upon seeing him in such misery Maglor could hardly bear to add to it, and at last he surrendered.    

“Okay,” he said slowly, trying to swallow back the thickness in his voice. He picked up the bowl of stew and set it safely atop the stack of books that had gradually migrated from the chest to the side of the bed. “I’ll… I’ll just leave it here, shall I? So if you want it later, you can have it, all right?” 

Maedhros did not reply, he merely stared off into the shadows that shrouded the tent’s corners, but Maglor heard his teeth softly begin to chatter as if he had caught a chill. And at that tiny thing, that fragile little symptom of something so much more perilous Maglor buckled; it felt like someone had kicked him in the stomach, like the force of all that worry and hurt and uselessness had slammed up into his ribcage and threatened to burst it. And perhaps unwisely he leaned forward, he took Maedhros’ hand within his own, his warm fingers slipping in between his brother’s lifeless ones. Hard he squeezed him, hard enough to hurt, and _good,_  he thought, _let it_ , as some sudden, brutal instinct spurred him onwards. Even if it hurt, even if Maedhros hated him for it then at least let him react, let it be an intentional, purposeful response, for surely that was better than this numbness. 

But numbness was all he received. Maedhros barely stirred, his fingers twitched as Maglor gripped his hand but then lay still, and miserably then Maglor loosened his hold. The blunt aftershock of pressure pulsed through his hand. His heartbeat seemed too loud in his ears.    

“ _Please_ , Nelyo,” he whispered, no longer caring for composure as desperately he leaned forward, as he stroked Maedhros’ ruffled hair back from his face, and lifelessly Maedhros let him. “Please. What is wrong? This is not like you. This… this passivity, it… it _is_ _not_ you. This is an illness, Nelyo, some malaise of the _fëa_ that can no longer be disguised. Won’t you tell me what is wrong? _Please?_ Maybe I can help you? Maybe, just a little bit…” 

“You can’t help me, Káno.”

“Won’t you let me try?”

“You can’t help me,” he repeated, and his eyes were bathed in sorrow. “Please… I… I’m just so t-tired. I just want to go to sleep…” 

Maglor’s throat tightened, for a few seconds he was silent, but eventually he croaked, “All right. All right, rest for a while. I’ll be right here. And it will be better in the morning, I promise. You’ll see…”

But softly Maedhros shook his head, and though his eyes sank to a close Maglor could see that his lashes were wetted with tears. “I just… I just want to sleep, Káno…” 

“I know,” Maglor whispered, and tenderly he held Maedhros’ hand as he curled up beneath the blankets, rocking over to his left and half burying his face into the pillows. And though the words seemed mere platitude, deep down Maglor did know. But he couldn’t admit it, some stubborn, relentless part of him wouldn’t let him admit it; it pried his lips back open and it shoved the words from his throat. It forced him at least to try.

“I know,” he murmured. “Shhh, come on, it’s all right. Don’t cry, now. Don’t cry. Just close your eyes, and rest for a while. Dream of gentle things. There you go, there now, it’s all right…”

Maglor’s speech tailed away, and he took up a lilting cradle-tune instead, humming the soft notes into the air as if by their resonance alone they might have the power to hold back the demons of night. And whether his lullaby indeed had some mollifying effect or in that moment some act of higher mercy had played its hand, Maglor was unsure, but as the minutes rolled by Maedhros’ breathing slipped into the measured rhythms of true repose. And perhaps it was merely reflex, or it was some lingering shred of instinct, but slowly Maedhros’ fingers tightened around Maglor’s hand. Gently Maedhros clutched to him, with such confused tenderness, with such aching uncertainty that it nearly stopped Maglor’s heart in his chest. But in response his fingers closed also, and quietly he held onto his brother’s hand, and into the encroaching shadows he only prayed that Maedhros would find the will to wake up again come the morning.   

The days shivered onwards. Banks of mist lapped and rolled over the lake’s cool surface; vagrant shreds of ephemera coiled uncertainly about tent posts and tree trunks alike. The rain drizzled down in grey, shimmering sheets, the droplets seeming to hover in the air like a dim blanket shrouded over the unhappy world. Through it Maedhros remained static, he did not better and he did not worsen. With weary fortitude he trudged through the days as his brothers still tried desperately to engage him, sometimes piquing his interest over some quirk of linguistics or new fact of geography only for him to sink back into despondency once more. The nights he endured, and what scant hours he could snatch without fear or pain his kin accounted as blessed. 

Though even the sternest of hearts despaired of his condition, and openly the softest mourned: none broke, and though hope waned they clung to their tasks, they clung to the fading belief that this subdued anguish must surely find its end.

* * *

The moon shone pallid and distant through the mist, dappling the tops of the slumbering tents in a gentle, luminous wash. Yet far from gentle were the dreams that racked through Maedhros’ night. Under Fingon’s pitying gaze he had suffered for hours; beads of acrid sweat clustered over his brow which tenderly Fingon wiped away, murmuring what comforts he could, though the words came sluggish over his tongue. For Fingon was no stranger to his cousin’s nightmares, and he knew how painfully little he could do to help. But nonetheless he persevered, taking up his harp and plucking out a dulcet tune before sliding up and down the scales in a melodious, soothing flow. But still Maedhros squirmed, his head rolled across the pillows as he twisted, and suddenly he gasped, his hand moving to wrap protectively over his stomach. The blankets displaced; his fingertips shone white and bloodless as he pressed into himself.       

A series of shudders rocked through him, his knuckles looked stark enough to break through the skin as he gripped into his stomach, and worriedly Fingon eyed him. He trilled his harp to a neat ending glissando before laying it aside, and he nearly dropped it as suddenly Maedhros cried out in a frantic smash of syllables. Hastily Fingon righted his harp, and deeply then he breathed to steady himself. Before him Maedhros moaned, his eyes rolled sightlessly beneath his eyelids, and a few seconds later the muscles in his neck corded with such grotesque severity that Fingon was almost about to intervene. Surely waking would be better than such distress, surely…

But before Fingon had the chance to act, a scream tore from Maedhros’ lips, and he jolted back into wakefulness. His eyes flew open, those beautiful irises that Fingon so fondly remembered as always full of kindness, of laughter, now lit up in awful panic as he blinked in disorientation, as he scrambled up into a sitting position. Slowly Fingon leaned forward, he reached out to take Maedhros’ hand and soothe him, but violently Maedhros recoiled. 

“No!” he gasped, snatching himself away beneath the covers. “No! Don’t touch me!” 

His cries echoed shrilly about the tent and immediately Fingon withdrew, his hands held up in a pacifying gesture of surrender.

“Nelyo…” Fingon said, “hey. Hey, it’s all right. It’s just me, it’s Finno…”

After a few shaky breaths recognition at last bled through terror, and Maedhros seemed to relax by a fraction. Fearfully he stared over at Fingon, his eyes unsteady and sunk into sockets the colour of bloodied charcoal. Slowly Fingon lowered his hands, knitting them together in his lap, but even at that unobtrusive movement Maedhros jerked backwards, he flinched like he had been slapped, and his eyes squeezed shut in a rictus of pain. 

“D-don’t…” 

“It’s all right,” Fingon crooned, the words sticking painfully in his throat. “You’re all right, it’s just me…”

As still as graven marble Fingon sat, and after a while Maedhros’ breathing steadied. With laborious effort he hoisted himself a little more upright, his left arm trembling with the strain of it before he sank limply back into the pillows. Lank strands of copper hair framed cheeks pale as alabaster, and with haunted eyes he looked over to Fingon. 

“You shouldn’t touch me, Finno.” 

Nausea bloomed in Fingon’s stomach. The whisper hung dead in the air between them. 

“What?” Fingon croaked, his brow crinkling as he frowned, as instinctively he leant forward once more. But at his proximity Maedhros shrank back, and with a heartsick sigh Fingon pulled himself away. Sorrow bubbled up his throat; hot, despairing tears prickled behind his eyes but stoically he swallowed them down, he forced himself to keep speaking. “Nelyo, what are you talking about? I’m not going to hurt you, you know that. Nobody is going to _hurt you_ …” 

Fingon’s voice cracked on the final syllables, and at the lurch in his tone Maedhros jumped.

“ _No_ …” he moaned, the word almost indistinguishable within the cry of anguish that curled up his throat. “No, you _sh_ - _shouldn’t_ touch me. I’m… I’m not c-clean…” 

As he spoke, he drew his left hand hard up against his sternum, hard enough that Fingon could hear the impact of it against the bone. But swiftly then he moved, he scraped the base of his palm down over his chest and stomach as if he was trying to wipe some unseen blemish from his skin. The blankets furrowed aside with the force of his movement, and to Fingon’s dismay a pinkish weal blossomed over his torso an instant later. 

“Nelyo…” Fingon began soothingly, but the note of warning in his voice went ignored. A grimace twisted over Maedhros’ face, and again he dragged his hand down his chest.   

“I’m not… I’m not _clean_ …” 

In the wake of his movement four pink lines burst crookedly over his stomach, and Fingon watched in horror as little speckles of blood began to pock his skin where his fingernails had caught upon the edge of a scar. Whether at that fresh pain or in some continual response to the distress that plagued him Maedhros moaned, the awful noise trailing off into a half-swallowed snarl as he raised his hand once more.

But before he could move again, Fingon leaned over and smoothly caught his wrist. His fingers wrapped firmly around his cousin’s arm, and though Maedhros squirmed and mewled in his grip, Fingon would not let go.     

“Shhh,” he crooned, biting back the swell of disgust that rose in his stomach as Maedhros bucked weakly beneath him, as he felt the too-prominent bones of his arm slide and twist as he tried to pull away. “Shhh, come on. Come on, don’t do that. Just lie still for me, all right? Just –“ 

“No!” Maedhros shrieked, and he jerked his arm with such unexpected force that he almost slid free of Fingon’s hold. “No… no, _please_ … please, it’s on me, it’s… I can _f-feel_ it…”

“There’s nothing there, Nelyo,” Fingon began, but in dismay he watched as the muscles in Maedhros’ stomach tensed, and harder still his cousin tugged against his grip. But it availed him not. Fingon was resolute, and a wordless cry of frustration and terror soon flitted from Maedhros’ throat as he realised that his efforts were futile, and limply he fell back against the pillows.

“There’s nothing there,” Fingon repeated sadly, and judging Maedhros to have calmed enough he set his hand gently down upon the mattress and relinquished his grip. Guiltily he stared down at his cousin’s arm as his fingers uncurled from it. Reddened marks of his hold ringed Maedhros’ wrist, flushed and ugly upon his skin.

With such crushing distance in his eyes Maedhros stared at him, and wearily Fingon sighed. And perhaps unconsciously he rocked forward as he steepled his fingers before his lips, for from him Maedhros recoiled, and once more his hand curled over his stomach.

“Don’t…” he whimpered, “P-please, please… don’t touch me. I’m not clean…” 

With excruciating pity Fingon looked down at his cousin, at the distraught face that peered up at him from within a tangle of copper waves. Fingon longed to reach forward properly, to take Maedhros in his arms and just hold him, to somehow smooth away his pain, but even as the temptation beckoned, he dismissed it. Such actions would do far more damage than aid here. So stiffly he arraigned himself in the chair, and though it felt like someone was stamping down upon his chest he listened as Maedhros spoke, as the words flitted with all of their awful truths over his lips. 

“… They did things, Finno,” he whispered. “They did th-things to me. _With_ me. I’m n-not… I… They – they f-forced me, they held me down and they forced themselves _inside_ of me…”

Fingon’s hands clenched perilously hard about the arms of the chair. The wood squeaked beneath his grip.

“They made it hurt, Finno… They made me bleed. They were not gentle like you.”

It felt like someone had gouged out Fingon’s throat. Mute, fathomless anger came ripping up out of his stomach, and he wanted to scream, he wanted to throttle something, he wanted to do a million rash, stupid, violent things in the blind hope that somehow it would make him feel better, that it would make it go away; this unthinkable admittance so long hinted at now laid bare at his feet. But bitter was the truth, and hard was its coming: he couldn’t change anything. History would not rewrite itself for him. And after a few moments of searing, acidic, _impotent_ rage he forced himself to meet Maedhros’ gaze.

Every muscle in his body strained with the effort of staying still as the words crawled over Maedhros’ lips to putrefy in the air between them.

“They said I deserved it. They s-said I needed to be punished. Because I hurt people. That’s what they said…”

“What?” The word was barely discernable, more a hoarse croak of dismay rather than a real attempt at speech. And though every sane fibre of his being begged him to stop, instinct plunged him forward. The incision was made, the poison glistened just beyond it, and with pounding, urgent intuition Fingon knew that this was the moment, and with steely purpose he bound himself to it. And though it felt like the sides of his throat were coated in grit, at last he rasped out the question: “What people?” 

“ _I don’t know,_ ” Maedhros whimpered, and all too clearly Fingon could see the force of his distress shake through his shoulders. “I _don’t know_ , Finno. It’s all mixed up in my head, but there were things… there were people in there, in that place… I don’t, I don’t know who they were, they wouldn’t tell me, but in the darkness they were hanging. All mangled and... b-bloody. They were like slabs of meat. But… but they looked like us, Finno. They… they _felt_ like us.  

And they dragged me over to these things, these people, and they told me to cut them. They told me to _gut_ them. And I didn’t want to, I _didn’t_ , but they made me. They made me do it. Because if I didn’t, they said, then I’d be the one hung up there. _I’d_ be their blood-thing to play with. They’d hurt me _even more_ …”

Fingon sat as one stricken dumb as below him Maedhros retched, until at last he gathered himself enough to continue.         

“S-so I did it. I t-took the knife in my hand and they pushed me towards one of them, and I didn’t want to but I put the knife on its skin, and it _screamed_ , Finno. It struggled and the chains were all clinking and I wanted to be sick, I told them no, I told them to stop, but then one of them slapped me, it grabbed hold of my hand and the knife in it and it pushed it in, into that _thing_. And I could feel the blood running all warm down my arm, it was dripping into a bowl beneath and I twisted and I tried to pull away, but I couldn’t get free… I couldn’t make it stop. 

Then they let me go, they told me to do it again, to do it myself, and I said no. I wouldn’t do it. I _c-couldn’t_. But then they laughed, they took me away and they… they beat me. They hurt me, Finno. And they said I could make it stop, it could all stop whenever I wanted. But I had to do what they asked. But… but I didn’t want to, I _didn’t_ , and for a long time I let them hurt me. It was better that way I thought, but then they kept going, it… it kept getting _worse,_ and I thought maybe, maybe just for one moment I could make it stop. I just wanted them to stop… I just wanted to stop hurting. 

S-so I told them I would do it. I hurt other people. I made them hurt so that I could stop f-feeling. And every day they made me do it, they… they made me choose. It would be me hurting, or them. And I chose them. Every… every time I chose _them…_

But the first time, Finno. The first time it was the worst. I touched that _thing_ … I… they made me touch it with my hands and all I could think was how small it was. How big my hands looked against it. And then when it screamed, when… when it struggled, the way it kicked… the noise it made when, when I…” 

With desperate intensity Maedhros’ eyes locked onto Fingon’s, and shame yanked the words with horrific force over his lips. 

“I think it was a child.” 

A cold slick of horror washed through Fingon’s stomach, and for a brief moment he shut his eyes, striving with himself to remain calm. And through the rage that seemed to crackle in his ears, he heard Maedhros softly begin to cry.

As though in answer something rose in him. Something urgent, something incandescent; it punched up from his stomach, it smashed through the tremulous bounds of control that he had imposed upon himself and sent them reeling. And guided by an emotion so strong he could not even begin to give name to it, Fingon lunged forward, he knelt upon the bed before his cousin and scooped him into the warmest, most sincere hug that he possibly could. For a brief moment Maedhros froze, but after a second of tearful indecision he collapsed forward into Fingon’s embrace. The breath rushed out of his lungs in one rattling exhalation, and like the bursting of a dam held too long behind decaying walls he just sobbed into Fingon’s chest.

Air shuddered through him in great racking gasps as he wept, his left hand wound into Fingon’s tunic, and after countless minutes slowly Fingon could discern the vague pattern of words amid his tears. 

“I h-hurt all of those people…” 

“Shh, Nelyo,” Fingon crooned, stroking down Maedhros’ rumpled hair as another wave of sobs crashed through him. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s over now…”

“N-no,” Maedhros gulped. “No, it’s _not._ I – I still did it. I did what they wanted…”

“It’s all right, it’s –“ 

“B-but… but they still hurt me for it. They c-called me dirty. They… they s-said I was a crime, a m-monster. They said there was _no point_ trying to save me…” 

“They were lies,” Fingon murmured, no longer bothering to mask the pleading in his tone. “They were _lies_ , Nelyo, nothing more. It was all make-believe, it – “ 

“They s-said my only place was on my hands and knees in front of them. In… in the dirt, where I belonged. And… and maybe if I was good enough then they might feed me, they might _f-fuck_ me…”

Maedhros’ voice cut off in a choke, and all the tighter did Fingon hold him, cradling his head into his chest. 

“I th-think I believed them…” Maedhros whispered. “I w-wanted to be good. I just… I didn’t want them to hurt me anymore but… but to be good for them I had to do…  _th-things,_ and… I don’t know… _I don’t know what to do anymore_.” 

Slowly Maedhros raised his head, and through swollen, bloodshot eyes he looked at Fingon.

“… I’m not who you think I am, Finno.”  

To that Fingon had no answer; it felt like someone had stitched his throat closed and welded it with flame. Before him Maedhros crumbled, sorrow and exhaustion and guilt truly beginning to exact their toll. His sobs died away into erratic, wavering breaths and in maudlin quiet then they sat, until Fingon’s embrace finally loosened and Maedhros sank back into the pillows. 

“Do you hate me, Finno?”

The plaintiveness in Maedhros’ tone shocked Fingon back into conversation. 

“Hate you?” he gasped, blinking back the tears that surged to a prickling marshal behind his own eyes. “No! No, of course not. I do not hate you, Nelyo.” 

“B-but…?”

“You have endured things far beyond endurance, and you have done what you must to survive them. How could I ever hate you for that?”  

A few heartbeats wobbled by, until sadly Maedhros whispered, “I think I do.” 

Such abject hopelessness shone in his eyes, such devastating loneliness seemed to grip him, and moved by forces that seemed almost unstoppable he drew breath to continue. And what Fingon would have given not to ever have to hear the words that poured next from his lips would have brought the mountains themselves to their knees. 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” 

It felt like his intestines had crawled up into his lungs and died there, but from some deep, long-buried part of him Fingon dredged up the words, the words he never wanted to admit to.

“Because I was weak,” he said simply, and he hoped the brevity of his statement might mask just how hard he was struggling to hold on to composure. “Because I could not bear to lose you so soon after I had found you. Because I could not stand that joy to be snatched so cruelly from my hands. Because I thought you deserved more.” 

Maedhros stared uncomprehendingly up at him, and Fingon swallowed down the tremor in his voice as he continued, “You… you were half delirious, Nelyo. I didn’t know what to do. I heard what you told me, and I despaired. Because what if I was wrong? What if _you_ were wrong? Under duress we might say and do the most heinous of things, but that does not make them true. They do not always reflect what we desire, in the end. And then Thorondor swept down, he bore me to you and then… I did what I judged to be right. 

It was selfish of me. It was cowardly, perhaps, and may they proclaim it so unto the very Doors of Night, I care not. But I did what I thought was right. I could not lose you, not again. Not in that place. Not… not like that…” 

“I knew what I was asking, Finno.” Maedhros’ voice barely scraped from his throat. “I wanted to die there, on that mountainside I just wanted it to end. I wanted to _stop hurting_. But… but you didn’t let me… you m-made me…” 

“I know,” Fingon murmured, and the forlorn confusion that swam in Maedhros’ eyes skewered through his heart anew. “I know I did. And I’m sorry, and I’m _not_ sorry, all at once. I couldn’t do it. I looked at you, and…”

“You hurt me. You… you _maimed_ me.” The words shivered upon Maedhros’ lips, glistening there in all their awful, bleeding poignancy. “I just wanted it to stop. I just… I just want it to go away. Please, Finno, _please_ … I can’t do this anymore… I _can’t_ …” 

“Nelyo, don’t.” 

“I just want to stop hurting, Finno. I… I don’t want to be _me_ anymore…”

Silence slammed through the tent, and in it the unspoken request seemed to shriek in Fingon’s ears. The candlelight guttered in a sudden wisp of breeze, sending the shadows lurching giddily about the corners of the tent. And after what seemed like a lifetime spent in the mires of indecision Fingon finally roused himself; he took Maedhros’ hand within his own, and with grave sincerity he looked into his eyes. 

“I denied you the choice before, Nelyo,” he said slowly, “and for that I shall always be accursed. But if you are asking it of me truly, then I am offering it to you now. If this is what you want, then we will go. We will go somewhere beautiful, atop a hill in the wide, open airs, with the sun sinking crimson and gold and glorious beyond the horizon until the spangled stars fill up the twilight, and I will hold your hand, and I will help you to end. If this is what you want, Nelyo, then I will do this for you.” 

“Really?”

“Yes,” Fingon smiled, and though tears tracked softly down his own cheeks he made no attempt to wipe them away. “But I do not want this for you. You… you are worth so much more than a hastened ending. You have so much more to do, to see, to be a part of in this brave new world. We all love you so much; so, _so_ much. Káno loves you, and Turko and Curvo and Pityo and Moryo. You are their big brother, and though they may never say it in words they love you so much that it _hurts_. I can see it in their eyes, I can read it in every step they take around you. 

And though they are not here with us, your father loves you, and your mother, and sweet Telyo also. They are all so proud of you. And my father loves you, and my mother and my sister and my brothers, and all of our myriad kin. You are so, so _loved_ , Nelyo. And I need you to know that. 

And I do too. You know _that_ , don’t you? I love you, Nelyo. And more than anything in this entire world I want you to be happy. I want to look at you, just once more, and to see you smile and to know that you are at peace. I want you to be happy, whatever that takes. 

This is your choice now. Not made in haste or loathing or despair, but in calmness, and with grace. And whatever you decide, I will be here with you. I will help you.”

“But I _don’t know_ , Finno,” Maedhros whimpered, his hand trembling within Fingon’s own. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know who I am anymore, who I am supposed to be. Even my name doesn’t fit me…”

For a long while they sat in silence, and Fingon watched as fresh, silent tears trickled down Maedhros’ flushed cheeks. In remorseful compassion he simply squeezed his cousin’s hand: the fateful words did not seem his to speak. But as the quiet stretched on, a thought occurred to him, improbable and childish as it might seem, and eventually he gave it voice.

“Well,” he ventured, and at his speech Maedhros looked desperately up at him, “perhaps it is a good thing.” 

“Wh-what?”

“Maybe now you get to decide who you want to be.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What has happened to you,” Fingon sighed, “is a crime indescribable. Our enemies abused you; they sought to peel you apart to the core and even then they would see you suffer. They did not wish your death at their hands. They wished your _destruction_.”

At the sudden vehemence in Fingon’s tone, fright bled into Maedhros’ eyes.

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because they did not achieve their purpose. Not yet, at the least. And in your arms now lie all their hopes, yours to do with what you will. Yours is the choice, Nelyo, this now is the choice that matters. You can let this destroy you, and you would be blameless for the choosing. Or you can rise from it.” 

“B-but…”

“It will not be easy. This is not a thing to be simply shrugged aside. But there is fire in you yet, though perhaps you do not know it yourself. The blood of the Firstborn is not so easily cowed, the spirit of Fëanáro and the strength of Istarnië run untainted in your veins. The light of Aman still glitters in your eyes; faint, maybe, but pure.

It does not have to be right now. This is not a decision to be based upon whims, or a thing to be persuaded into, not even by me. You do not even have to tell me, if you don’t want to. But in your heart you need to decide to what fate you will stand, and you need to know that it is right. Not to think, but to _know._ And to whatever end you conclude, I will be with you, though it brings me either sorrow or joy.” 

Fingon then would say no more, and Maedhros was silent. He simply curled himself up, and as the sun peeked dim and pallid over the mountains Fingon moved to hold him, tucking the blankets up and cradling his shivering form tightly to him, and together they awaited the grim new dawn. 

And as he lay wrapped in his cousin’s arm, as his eyes drifted shut to the sound of his heartbeat, Maedhros dreamed. Through the dark recesses of his own mind he wandered, memories of pain and delight and terror and laughter twining about his feet. Alone he was, and scared; the ground seemed unsteady below him, and behind there was nothing but blackness. On he walked, blind, lost; into what seemed like eternity he kept going, until eventually he began to tire. He wondered why he was walking, and where he was walking to.

He paused then, and the blackness scented him, it roared in his ears, it drew up behind him ready to pounce, ready to devour him. And just for a second it seemed easier, he thought, better. Better than this uncertain walk. Kinder than the snares and traps and thorns of memory. Let it take him. Let there be one more moment of pain, just one more, and then nothingness.

But he didn’t want the blackness to take him, he thought, and though he could not say where the thought came from it was powerful, and it moved him. And he looked again, and though the blackness was there, it billowed and crept and seethed behind him, it had lost its promise of mercy. 

No, he thought, you will stay there. I will not go with you.   

For in that moment something else blossomed before him, it burst into existence with radiant streams of flame, it bathed the road in a warm, glowing light, and though it did not show him where the road led, it charmed him. It filled him with its gentle light and suffused him, with friendly smiles and brotherly hugs it took him by the hand, to the sound of horses neighing wild and free among the hills it drew him forward, with the embraces of people he had not yet met it welcomed him. 

Forward he walked into that light’s soft glimmer, and in it he found hope. That there was laughter still, and there was love, that after pain could still come joy; inexplicable, impossible as that seemed.

But the light that bathed him was ephemeral; sublime, yes, but unreal. It seemed to slide through his fingers. 

The blackness hissed behind him, it sensed his uncertainty, and in abstract response the light changed. Its quality did not shift, but somehow it coalesced, from within that evanescent radiance something hardened, something was birthed, something small and solid and real, so indescribably _real._ And drawn by some instinct he did not understand he walked towards it, and behind him the blackness quailed. Through hope’s transient promises he walked, they brushed over his skin like benevolent little ghosts; but ghosts still they remained. They themselves were not quite enough.

And though the light of it burned him he walked towards that thing, that solid, impossible thing. He took its glow in his hand and it seared right through him. He let it scourge him. 

Hope had beckoned to him in all its pale glory, and he had answered its call. Yet within it, he found something else. At its incandescent core, where all of hope’s fleeting possibilities and scant probabilities and fragile ephemeras collided, where they crashed and whirled and burned into a single stunning point of reality, he found something far more important.

He found _determination_.    

 

* * *

 

And here we are. Thus concludes this stoic endeavour. Truly I hope that you liked it. I hope that you saw what I was trying to achieve.  
So that will be it from me, for a while at least, although you never really know. The writing demons strike with unpredictability.  
So until the next time, then, whenever that may be. Yours most sincerely, theeventualwinner.  

EDIT: For a one off sort of follow-up scene go read my little ficlet Solace. Aaaaand check out [this amazing little comic](http://snartha.tumblr.com/post/101351224531/short-russingon-comic-under-the-cut) by snartha on Tumblr that was inspired by a post-Open Wounds / Solace Russingon scenario. Warning: NSFW.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wait For Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406323) by [Russandork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russandork/pseuds/Russandork)
  * [Sutures](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407433) by [theeventualwinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner)




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